The Rise of Lucavi
by Benjamin Bradt
Summary: Five years after the War of the Lions, Ivalice labors to recover from the devastation. But with the destruction of Altima, Lucavi himself has risen, and the world quakes in terror.
1. Evil Approaches

Murond the death city, an ancient scar on the face of a bygone age; across the lifeless wasteland of forgotten marvels, a bitter wind howled into the unending night. Gritty whorls of dust danced across the gray tundra, racing in and out of the husks of long forgotten civilizations on a blasted highway towards the pinnacle of design, a downed airship on a hoary tor. Here, on the wooden planks of this crippled beast, a war had been concluded; the last son of the Beoulves and his army of rag-tag soldiers had brought down The High Seraph Ultima, after a long campaign that had opened up the hierarchy like a wound and revealed the festering cancer of the church's corruption. It was that boy who's journey into manhood cost him his best friend, two brothers, and branded both him and his sister heretic enemies of the kingdom. Now, five years after he and his sister's death, nothing remained of their battle but ancient blood soaked into the planks.

Strewn about where it fell, the bones of the bloody angel stretched across the airship's rotted deck, swathed in a black stain where the monstrosity's flesh had putrefied and soaked into the hulk's wood. The power of the 12 zodiac stones had unleashed this god gone awry upon the people, part of the churches plan to give form to the shadowy threat of Lucavi, and return power that the monarchy had taken. Surrounding the skinless monster laid the marks of the battle; furrows burned into the wood from the beast's potent bolt and fire spells, holes in the deck from the engineer's firearm, sword furrows from the templar and the knight; the young hero's magic had blasted great circles into the deck, and the beast's last standing place was marked forever by the sanctifying sword spells of an eager holy knight. Despite the church's part in the scheme, it was her loyalty to humanity that spurred her on to look beyond the Beoulve's heretic brand and see the man she called friend, and eventually fell in love with.

With silence that made the wind pale in jealousy, the lone observer slid across the ancient planks and stopped before the strewn out skeleton. Lucavi looked down on the bones of his nemesis with moderate disgust, before crushing the elongated skull under a cloven hoof. The idea that she who had bested him would fall to a company of mortals was a nauseating mockery, and the sheer insult it implied could not go unnoticed. In slaying Altima, the unknowing mortals had freed him, and he would repay their unintended kindness with pain; new kinds of pain, and new senses to feel it with.

Lucavi exerted a fraction of his magic, willing his form to change into one that would allow him the anonymity he craved; horns receded into his scalp as rows of silky black hair began to grow, just as the hairy pelt that covered his body peeled away, revealing the all too perfect flesh of an Adonis. Lastly, cloven hooves, which left sulphurous burns wherever they touched twisted into perfect human feet. Now, Lucavi the goat man faced the world as Lucavi, man; he would walk the world of men, feeding off their selfish intent. Eventually, he would be king of the waking world, but not before he killed the five who had slain his great nemesis.

_No, not kill them; that would be too merciful._ A wicked grin formed on his perfect lips, showing just a hint of perfect teeth. _Twist them, break them, defile them, and in the end they will beg for a death that will never come._ Forming a circle in the air using his index finger, a purple ring appeared before him, showing a serene grassy hill just outside of a castle. Lucavi stepped through, the tingle of magic caressing his naked flesh, and in moments he was free of the Airship Graveyard, the scent of Ivalice in his nostrils. He walked gracefully down the hill, the fresh blades of grass tickling his feet, and strode into the encampment with a smile on his face.

Pandemonium ensued as the naked figure entered; women and children scampered for their tents, while the men drew their swords and formed a wall between him and the rest of the camp. The partition of warriors parted, allowing a merchant to approach the naked man. "I am Kraven Fairchild, chemist, and master of this caravan. Who are you, and how is it you have come to my camp in this state of . . . undress?" Lucavi smiled, and with a single motion, thrust his hand into the man's chest, his fingers penetrating the skin as if the flesh were water. He drew out the man's heart, dull red eyes flickering as the red organ thundered in his hand; although separated from its master, it still pulsed rapidly as adrenaline coursed into the merchant's veins. "Y . . . y . . . y . . . you . . . "

"I hold your heart in my hand, and still you live?" Lucavi finished the horrified merchant's words, "Is that what you were trying to say?" The caravan master licked his lips dryly, staring at the rapidly convulsing organ. "Yes, you are correct; you live, and will do so as long as your life source retains contact with my perfect flesh." The naked stranger laughed amusedly, though behind his elegantly formed words, there was no humor, only thinly-veiled malice.

The armed men held their positions despite the fear that soured their stomachs, and the merchant's gaze flickered to Lucavi. "What is it that you want, you monster . . ."

"Your clothes, your guards, your caravan," Lucavi smiled, his canines glimmering brightly in the unfiltered sunlight. "Surely your life is worth more than these material things?"

"Done," the greedy merchant said hastily, "Now, give me my heart and I'll be gone." He extended one hand, slipping the other around his back, hoping the demon before him didn't realize he wore a romada gun concealed there.

Lucavi tossed the organ to the merchant, who caught it in his outstretched hand, then fell lifeless to the ground. "Only so long as it contacts my perfect flesh," he reminded the corpse, his eyes never leaving the company of soldiers before him. "You all belong to me now," he said coolly, "Kneel before me to swear your loyalty, and I will spare you." One of the soldiers screamed wordlessly as he charged, swinging his long sword in a neck-severing arc. Lucavi smirked as he deftly caught the blade in one hand, the edge rasping dully against his flesh; the soldier kept his pressure on the blade, trying desperately to force the weapon through the monster's skin, but to no avail. Lucavi snapped the blade in half, and as the soldier pitched forward, he jabbed the shard of steel into the young man's sternum, eviscerating him in a single flick of his wrist. As the unfortunate man's guts splashed to the ground, activity erupted in the group, and the guards scattered in different directions; all save on, who held his position, kneeling before the naked form. "Tell me," Lucavi said as he approached the soldier, "why do you not run from me?"

"A lord is a lord," the man replied, not raising his head. "Whether I serve Craven, or Delita, or you, it makes no difference."

"I don't pay my soldiers you understand," Lucavi said simply, "To me, you are nothing but a tool."

"To live is to be the tool of one more powerful than yourself."

Lucavi chuckled, "Tell me, servant, what is your name?"

"Gilgamesh," he said as he rose, meeting Lucavi's gaze with dead gray eyes.

"Very well Gilgamesh, you will be my right hand. You will deliver my directions to my soldiers, and as such, I will give you power; power to control those weaker than you." He reached out and laid two fingers on the soldier's forehead, "That's what you said, isn't it? Men serve whoever is more powerful than them?" Gilgamesh said nothing, and Lucavi's eyes glowed a sickly green as a bolt of light arced from his eyes and rushed along his skin, passing into Gilgamesh. The soldier shuddered as the power coursed through him, but made no move to take his eyes from his master's. Lucavi smiled pleasantly as he took his hand away, "You are my general, my maker of war, and as such you will have the strength of any man you best in combat. Now go," Lucavi said as he drew the sword from Gilgamesh's hip scabbard, the silver blade turning a dirty red as the demon's magic changed it. "These soldiers would desert your army. I want their heads on pikes by the first rays of the moon, understood?"

"Yes, my lord." With strength and speed greater than most men, Gilgamesh turned and raced into the heart of the encampment. As his red blade swooped down, cleaving a soldier in half, a surge of strength coursed up Gilgamesh' sword arm, causing him to smile. He howled with pleasure as he butchered them all; men, woman, and children alike fell to his blade, until the sky was black, and every inch of his flesh was wet with slaughtered men's blood.

Leaving a trail of crimson footprints as he went, Gilgamesh returned to his master after completing the task given to him. The camp was now fenced in by a wall of pikes, each one sporting the head of a human being, their faces twisted into the most horrific of screams as their unblinking eyes scanned the horizon. Approaching Lucavi, Gilgamesh dropped to one knee, his sword pointed at the earth. With the quiet rustle of fine robes, Lucavi approached the blood-soaked warrior, his flesh now concealed beneath the regal raiment's of the merchant he'd slain. "Excellently done, Gilgamesh."

"What is your command, my lord?"

"We go to Igros, in pursuit of a hated enemy. Too long has man grown fat of their security, and a misappropriated sense of invincibility has poisoned the soul of both the politicians and the clergy. We will start a new kingdom on the broken backs of such foolish men. And we will start with the corpse of one such man, a self-righteous hero named Ramza Beoulve."


	2. Ghosts of the Past

_A farmer is the connection between man, and the latent life that resides within the soil; ordinary men stare with disdain at the earth, disgusted by the crawling, slithering things that inhabit its depths. A farmer reaches into the mud, the dirt, and as he withdraws his fingers, he brings with him life, and the power to propagate human life. A farmer is like a God, who carves future generations from the du- _The girl's shriek knifed through the stillness of the day, slashing through the workman's mind with a cool blade that sent a chill down his spine. He leapt off the plow horse and sprinted across the fields, rushing toward the house that sat in the distance, a single fearful cry forming on his lips.

"Alma!" He was a blur as his feet pounded the fertile soil beneath him, carrying the frightened farmer across the fields and into the doorway. He didn't pause as he entered the arch, his hand reaching out and grasping the weathered sword from behind the old leather coat that hung by the door as he continued on to the back of the cottage. "Alma!" The wooden door splintered under his foot as he charged into her room, sword drawn, a soldier who has seen many horrors prepared to slaughter garrisons of men who might be assaulting the poor girl . . .

. . . only to find her sitting up, trapped in a nightmare that had her shrieking as if she were aflame. He sheathed the sword and sat on the edge of the bed, gently grabbing her shoulders. "Alma, wake up."

Her eyes focused on him, and as recognition flushed across her features she flung her arms around him, sobbing. "Oh brother, brother, why is this happening to me?"

As if she were a small child he hushed her, stroking her hair with one gloved hand. "You've been through so much, little sister, it's only natural that you'd have nightmares. They'll fade in time; what's important is you remember that your brother loves you very much, and that I'll always be there to help you." He sat with her, petting her long flaxen hair until her frantic breathing turned to quiet snoring. The farmer gently laid his sister back on the bed, drawing her covers up before slipping out of the room. He quietly returned the old sword to its hiding place and walked outside, finding a shady spot to sit as he deftly rolled a pinch of shredded echo grass in smoking paper. He'd told her that they were just nightmares, that they'd go away, but he wasn't so sure of that anymore.

Ramza Beoulve took a long drag off of the cigarette, sighing. The 'nightmares' had started shortly after their narrow escape from the Graveyard of Airships, and had since begun to intensify, punctuated by the gradual decline of Alma's health. He thought he was a skilled enough chemist to help her, that her condition was nothing more than a simple case of post-traumatic stress disorder resulting from her possession by Altima; but it was more than that, and he couldn't ignore the fact any longer, not without admitting to himself that he'd become a coward. For five years he'd hidden away on the small farm outside of the Fovoham Windflatts, supplying everything he and his sister could ever need, determined to avoid the cities and the watchful eye of anyone who might recognize him or his sister. They'd lost everything they had ever known so that rich men could call themselves gods, and in bringing them down from their pedestals he'd gotten himself and Alma labeled 'heretics'. Five years or fifty years later, and the church would still be as eager to cut off their heads, so a modest life of solitude had been necessary. But now, with Alma's life at stake, he'd have to reenter the world that had spurned him.

"To the inferno with you, powers that watch over the lives of man." He ground the ember out under his heel, "It's not good enough to destroy our families and friends, but you must return to secure your kill. You'll take Alma from me, only once you pry her from my cold, dead fingers. I've felled The High Seraph Ajora, and all twelve of the Zodiac Braves; do your worst."

"All rise," the chancellor's voice echoed through the meeting room, causing Lucavi to scowl disapprovingly. Gilgamesh glanced at his lord, silently perceiving his master's annoyance, but likewise said nothing. "I present to you both, his majesty, King Delita Hyral the First."

The robed man stepped to the side, allowing the young king to enter the room. Lucavi immediately recognized a hardness in the ruler's eyes; he'd been young when he took his first life, betrayed his friends and his morals to rise in power, even manipulated the church's ludicrous 'Zodiac Braves' plan to maneuver himself into the throne. He'd even taken the life of his wife, Queen Ovelia, severing all the ties that bound him to serve the will of the aristocracy. Lucavi smirked in appreciation of Delita's past, he was remarkably ruthless for someone so green. The king sat down in the chair slowly, wincing at a pain in his side, an old knife wound. "Hello gentlemen, welcome to Igros Castle. I apologize for my haste, but we've captured several assassins sent by an ambitious enemy, and I intend to oversee the interrogation.

Lucavi smirked at the glimmer of bloodlust in Delita's eye as he mentioned the impending interrogation. "I wish I could be there for it, I can appreciate a good interrogation."

The king crooked a curious eyebrow at the merchant, clearing his throat. "I understand that your caravan was robbed?"

"Inconsequential," Lucavi rose slowly and walked around the table, "Merely an opportune report to obtain an audience with you, my liege. What I want to talk to you about, your majesty, is Ramza Beoulve."

The name sent a chill down Delita's spine, and his face faltered slightly. "I suggest you utter that name with care, sir, as he is the most wanted heretic in all of Ivalice. Were the inquisitors to believe you associated with him, not even I could save your skin."

"Hmm, of course." Lucavi smiled at Delita, the corners of his mouth curving up. "How about the rest of the party that accompanied him?"

The king shrugged vaguely, "I wasn't aware of whom his troupe consisted of, but I assume they died with him."

The king's blatant dismissal was wearing on his nerves, and Lucavi's smile took on a slightly predatory gleam as he narrowed his eyes. "Come now Delita, you were his best friend, until you decided to take advantage of his naiveté and manipulate him as his brother had. In the end it was for the better, the war of the lions ended when you ascended the throne, and you finally got the private joy of staring down your commoner's nose at those 'oh-so high and mighty' nobles."

Enraged by the merchant's words, Delita stood up quickly, toppling his chair. "I do not take to your tone, sir. My life has been, to say the least, inhumane. I regret every action I ever took against Ramza," He balled his hands into fist, pointing an accusatory finger at the merchant, "He was a brother to me, and I will not have that memory besmirched by some self-glorified fat-purse. Guards, escort these two . . . _gentlemen,_ to the gates!" Without waiting for a reply, the king turned and started toward the exit, dimly aware of the guards as they passed him.

The trio of armed soldiers never had the chance to scream; it was the sound of metal sheering through a body that alerted Delita, the wet plop of bloody meat falling to the ground that made him turn as he drew his weapon. Gilgamesh towered over him, a red smeared sword clutched in each hand. Delita's chaos blade flashed out, skittering across the twin swords that the merchant's knight parried with. Skin and muscle tore, and four arms burst from Gilgamesh's back, each one of the gnarled hands tightly clutching another vicious weapon.

Delita paled in horror, praying to Saint Ajora as he brought the knight sword up to defend himself. Gilgamesh' blades flashed out, the force of his blows threatening to bat the weapon from the king's seasoned hands. From his back, two more swords struck out, their razor edges barely parried away from the king's head. The swords drew back and an axe swung out; Delita managed to bring the sword up, but the heavy weapon shattered the ancient blade, and as Delita threw himself out of the way, he found his escape stopped abruptly as Gilgamesh rammed his spear into the king.

The young ruler stared down numbly at the long blade that was buried in his guts, his lips slowly parting as a gout of gore erupted from his throat, bathing his tongue in the coppery fluid. Time seemed to stop for a second as he stared absently at the blade, and as it was torn free the world rushed to catch up to him. Delita's legs failed to respond as he tried to move back, but the connection to his body was restored as the first of four swords slashed across his chest, making the bloodied king wheeze in pain. The glimmering blades fell in quick succession, coming back wet with blood as he struck again and again; the blows were shallow and non-vital, the attacks designed to make the king suffer, and suffer he did as he staggered backward, bumping against the wall and falling to his knees, a pool of dark crimson forming on the regal rug beneath him.

Lucavi kneeled next to Delita, smiling with satisfaction as he watched the king's life beginning to fade; already his lips were grey, and his skin was blanching out enough to make the graying hair at his temples seem a stark contrast. The battered king did not raise his eyes, their focus being the slippery nest of entrails that he held in his hands as he clumsily struggled to put them back inside of his torso. Lucavi looked up at Gilgamesh, "Go to the dungeon and release Orinas' assassins; steal one of their uniforms and flee the city through the main street, slaying as many city guards as you can without seeming too eager."

"Yes, Lord Lucavi."

"L . . . Lucavi?" Delita looked up at the merchant, "You're th-the devil . . . Lucavi?" Gilgamesh disappeared out of the room, and from the down the hall the sounds of combat were evident. The king struggled to focus on the man but his eyes refused to work. "You . . . can't be . . . you're just a legend the church made up . . ."

"Just like Saint Ajora?" Lucavi laid a hand on Delita's chest, and the king gasped as strength flooded his body, "You would be surprised, my dear Delita, at how many things exist merely because man believes them to."

Delita gritted his teeth at the monster's smiling face, "If you think that promising me a chance to walk away from here unharmed will get me to tell you what you want, you're mistaken."

"I wouldn't dream of it, your majesty."

"Then why heal me?"

"I'm not," Lucavi's smile widened, revealing rows and rows of sharp teeth, "I just wanted you to be awake and clear-headed . . . for this . . ."

* * *

The marketplace's casual air of business was disrupted by a blood curdling scream that echoed for miles around; it was so horrific that the town fell silent, broken only by a woman's scream as a gore-stained man exploded out of the castle gates, a sword clutched in his hand. The mysterious fighter fled the city as if the hounds of hell were on his heels, stopping only to slay any member of the town's patrol who was foolish enough to try and stop him.

* * *

Beneath Goug, in an ancient catacomb that had since been rebuilt to serve a more recent purpose, a set of thirteen spheres hummed audibly in their glass prison. The orbs, each a different color, pulsed with an unearthly light that emanated from within them. Their observer, a massive man of steel, turned his inhuman red eyes from the spectacle and toward the only living being who knew of his existence. "Master Bunanza, come see the aurecite, they've suddenly come alive."

Sighing at the formality in his friend's voice, he slid his grease smudged goggles up onto his forehead and donned a simple pair of glasses, turning away from the firearm and approaching the crystal brazier. "Eight, how many times must I tell you to stop . . . calling . . . me . . . master . . ." The words died in his throat as he saw the zodiac stones thrumming with their own light, creating a rainbow light show on the dull gray walls of the subterranean workshop. "They just started this?"

Worker Eight nodded, "Yes, Master Bunanza, what does it mean?"

"I'm not sure Eight," the engineer nodded slowly, "But it's way over my head." He turned and walked over to a simple brass horn on the wall, his eyes unconsciously following its path upward into the ceiling, knowing it would connect to a second horn floors above. "Father, do you hear me?"

"Yes son, what's wrong?" Besrodio's voice echoed down the tube moments later, slightly distorted by the long journey through the brass fixture.

"The zodiac stones have begun pulsing with internal light, Eight says it started minutes ago."

The communication line fell silent for several moments, "What do you suggest we do?"

"Send a letter to Lesalia, contact Beowulf Kadmus and Reis Dular; tell them to come to Goug as fast as her dragons can ferry them . . . and that Mustadio apologizes for calling upon them so soon."

"Of course, my son."


	3. Dorter Trade City

Dorter Trade City had changed little in the five years since he'd last set foot in it; five years ago it had been the final supply stop before Orbonne Monastary and the Graveyard of Airships, and certain . . . events had occurred to make the location haunt his memories. The mud and dirt of the streets was still dark with old blood stains, many of them cast by himself as his foes tried many times to stop his quest to save his sister from Vormav and his Zodiac Braves. How funny, that the city would once again stand between himself and his sister. _Oh rueful fate_, he mused sullenly, _Your sense of humor is as cheerful as a corpse in rictus . . ._ A horse hoof stomped down in the puddle he'd been staring into, shattering the cloudy sky's reflection and knocking him out of his reverie. He shook his head and resumed his march into the trade city, brushing a length of shaggy blond hair from his eyes.

Much as it had been during the war, Dorter's streets were still clogged with ragged lean-to stands, greedy merchants whose wares were cast out for all to see. Consisting of little more than weak wooden frames and tattered canvas tarpaulins, the destitute cityscape belied the heavy pockets of the merchant folk that ruled the city. He perused the wares with feigned interest, knowing what he sought lie not in the marketplace, but in the wealthy merchant's quarter.

"Lugria!" The shout drew his gaze away from the shabby stands and toward a woman, selling produce out of the back of her horse cart. She smiled warmly and waved him over, taking a few gold coins from a man with a basket full of apples. He smiled, the first genuine smile to touch his face since departing the Fovoham Windflats a few days prior, and made his way toward her.

"Good afternoon Midori," he bowed to her out of reflex.

The woman shook her head at his formality, "A gentleman knight in a farmer's frock? Come now Ramza, we're neighbors and practically family." She snared him in an embrace, breathing deeply of the farmer's musky smell; he was dirty from the hike, dust and sweat caked on his sun-tanned skin, but he smelled like fertile earth and the closeness of him made the girl's heart flutter.

Feeling somewhat awkward of how long and hard she clung to him, he gently separated their embrace. "Fancy meeting you this far out! I take this as a sign that the harvest has been very good for you and Cella?"

She nodded, shyly tucking a lock of black hair behind her ear, "Aye, and Cella sends her warmest to you. She keeps threatening to break her toys, hoping you'll come and fix them again. She's quite fond of you."

An image of the eight year old came to mind; clutching a ragged doll under her arm as she fought off imaginary goblins with her wooden sword. "And I am quite fond of her myself," he chuckled in delight.

"So what brings you out here?" Her face darkened slightly, "I take it Alma's health has not improved?" Ramza bowed his head solemnly, and she frowned. "I was afraid of that. She'd seemed to be getting better at one point, but the cards told me that she was due to fall deeper into despondency."

Ramza's mouth was a grim line, "I wish too often that you were not so skilled a fortune teller as you are, else I might be able to doubt your worst predictions. But as it stands, I can no longer trust my own medicines to stave off whatever illness besets."

"Think you that Dorter holds a chemist who might succeed in your stead?"

"Mayhaps," Ramza withdrew a thick journal from the folds of his coat, "With the notes I have made on medicines used and her responses, a chemist might see something that mine farmer eyes have missed. I hear tell of one, Desmond Cleigh, a chemist of no small repute that lives in Dorter during the summer seasons. Hopefully, he will succeed where I have failed."

"Then get about your chores Ramza," she hugged him again, "I'll be about once my sales are done here."

"Grand," he smiled and patted her hand where it hung on his arm, "Bring Cella with; should she ruin many more of her toys, I'll be too busy fixing them to make ready for my harvest this fall." The pair shared a laugh and he left her, not seeing the longing gaze she fixed him with as he departed. Having lost her husband to the war and being forced to raise a daughter on her own, Ramza's tireless help and ever-warming smile had been the reason she had not lost her land to Lord Rytel's tax hike to rebuild the depleted coffers. He'd always been kind, and ever friendly, but her heart had become heavy with a friendship that wanted so much more from the mysterious farmer.

"Aye, he is a looker, that one." The woman's voice snapped Midori from her reverie, and as she turned, her gaze settled on a young archer. The unnamed woman grinned lasciviously at her, "Hard body from the fields, eh? They say a farmer's passion burns like a summer crop fire, but I imagine you already know such a thing."

Midori's cheeks burned bright red, "O-o-of course not! A lady never leisures to entertain such thoughts; Ramza's a gentleman through and through, and I am a lady!"

"A lady with a daughter," The archer nudged her with an elbow, "Clearly you're no stranger to that sort of thing." Laughing at Midori's obvious discomfort, the girl left her to blush at her approaching customers.

The female archer walked down two blocks, then slipped into a bar called 'The Traveler', where a young knight in blue armor was waiting. "Clymenstra, what do you have to report?"

"The man's name is Ramza Lugria, a farmer out on the Windflatts, he lives with a sister named Alma."

"Then it is indeed Ramza Beoulve," the knight clasped his hands in malicious glee. "I've sought trails and whispers of him for more than a year, ever since I heard tell of his murdering my father at Lionel Castle. I'll carve my father's name into that bastard's forehead, or my name is not Galron Gaffgarion."

* * *

"Please Mister Lugria, have a seat." From across the oaken table and the bone china tea set, a young man smiled warmly at Ramza as he sat down. "I appreciate the distance you travelled to see me; Fovoham is quite the ride over treacherous terrain."

"I was hoping I might speak with your father, Desmond Cleigh."

The young man chuckled, "Mister Lugria, I am Desmond Cleigh."

Ramza's jaw dropped, "You . . . you are Desmond Cleigh? You are the chemist who cured the Fungusmoss Epidemic that crippled Berevnia after the war? You're a lad of fourteen!"

"I am fifty-five years old, Mister Lugria, and the epidemic was averted by removing the corpses from the water supply. The panacea was just to help them get started afterward." The youth assumed a sagely smile, folding his hands in his lap.

Ramza stared at him in silence for several seconds, ". . . How is that even possible?"

"Well, I am a chemist."

Ramza shook his head and slid a leather journal across the table to the chemist. "I'm somewhat of an amateur chemist myself. My sister's health has steadily deteriorated over the past three years; she's been having terrible nightmares, growing in intensity, and as they intensify her lucidity becomes less prevalent. There was an . . . incident five years ago, in which she nearly died in a magical attack. I'd thought I had managed to nurse her through the worst, but I was wrong."

Desmond arched an eyebrow in interest as he scanned the pages of the book, "You're much more than 'somewhat' of a chemist. You're quite an accomplished one; these notes are brilliant, better than many books penned by so-called 'experts'! Your sketches of the herbs, combined with your precise measurements, make it so that a novice could replicate your medicines. Are you sure you've never been tutored?"

"No, I've taught myself, I've had to; my mother died giving birth to my sister and my father was a casualty of the fifty year war, so my focus has always been Alma. Our half brothers died during the War of the Lions, but even before hand she was little more than a burden in their eyes." The last note held a great score of disdain.

"You should be proud! Chemistry and medicine has been a lifetime pursuit for me, and I was nowhere near so developed or accomplished at your age." Desmond nodded slightly, "Well your notes will make it easy for me to take up where you left off. You've taken years of work off of any panacea research I'll be making. I don't know if my labors will be successful, but you've given me a wonderful perch to take flight from, so to speak."

"Excellent," Ramza rose from his seat, the tea cold and untouched before him. "Now, in regards to your compensation . . ."

Desmond raised a hand, "Nonsense. I got into the business to help people, and this business with your sister sounds like a prime example of such. Besides, you've done most of the work yourself, and it would be a pleasure to work in tandem with such an accomplished chemist."

"Very good," Ramza smiled and extended his hand. "It makes my heart beat easier to know that my sister will defy fate's cruel designs and live on."

The cryptic tone in Ramza's voice made Desmond's fingers twitch, but he dutifully took the offered hand and shook it firmly. "Shall I make two guest rooms for you?"

"No," Ramza shook his head, "I'll be bringing Alma to stay here, but I must return to tend my fields. I'll come to see her at every interval, and if you send message, I'll be here swifter than the southern wind."

"Understood," Desmond refilled his tea, "I'll see you within the week."

* * *

Regardless of the archer's teasing, Midori was pleased with the day's end. She had sold every scrap of food within the wagon, pulling in enough gil to pay twice the taxes owed and still more left. She smiled as she patted the fat purse on her belt, "Midori old girl, things are finally looking up."

"Excuse me, miss?"

"I'm sorry sirrah, but the stand is closed." Midori turned, smiling brightly at the young knight, until she realized he had placed the tip of a rune blade against her throat.

"You misunderstand, my good woman." Galron smiled and bowed, the sword never leaving its precarious perch. "My name is Galron Gaffgarion; I am an old friend of Ramza's, and I thought you would be kind enough to assist me. You see, my friends and I," he gestured to the grinning legion behind him, "want to prepare a surprise party to celebrate our reuniting, and I need you to take me back to his home so that we might prepare."


	4. Ramza Unleashed, part 1

The sun was passing into the afternoon as Ramza and his chocobo reached the edge of the Lenalian plateau, being blessed with the beautiful sight of the windflatts extending out before them, stretching into eternity. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the distance, until he saw his farmhouse out at the center of one of the fields. "A wagon?" He squinted again, making doubly sure that there actually was a wagon parked out before his home. "Huh, must be Midori stopping in to check on Alma." He smiled and shook his head, urging his chocobo onward. "She's a sweet girl, that one. Any man would be lucky to have a girl like her . . ." His smile dipped, _So why do I continue to play ignorant to her advances. True, she is a sweet girl, so why does such ice coat my veins when she tries to call sweetly unto me? Even now, many years later, am I still so tangled up in your golden tresses?_

The chocobo balked back at him as it descended the rocky hillside, nearly bucking the rider off. "Easy Boco," he cooed to the animal as he stroked its neck, "I know we've ridden hard the past days, but we're almost at our end. I promise your fill of gyshal greens once we reach the stables." The animal seemed to go uncomforted by his words, something that was not missed by Ramza's keen eye. They quickly descended and crossed the flats, the level fields allowing Boco to run at top speed across the dirt paths and grassy fields, until the pair reached the vacant porch of the young farmer's house.

"Midori!" Ramza rode up to the house, dismounting a short distance from the stairs, "Alma, I'm home!"

Midori emerged from the house, a dish rag in her hands, "Oh Ramza . . . how I wish you'd not come . . ."

The farmer frowned in confusion, until he spotted the knight silhouette as it emerged from behind her. "Ah, Ramza Lugria, or should I say . . . Ramza Beoulve," Ramza scowled angrily, knotting his fists, "Ahh yes, that's what I thought. Midori, let me introduce you to Ramza Beoulve, last heir of the Beoulve family, lord of the Hokuten knights, and the most wanted heretic in all of the church of Glabados' history."

Midori stared in shock, "Ramza, is that true?"

"Who the hell are you, and what do you seek of me?" Ramza did not relax his posture, keeping his eyes locked on the knight before him. He did not show that he knew, but he was well aware of the seven figures that were surrounding him.

"My name, Ramza, is Galron Gaffgarion." He bowed, never taking his sword away from Midori's back. "You owe me for the death of my father."

Ramza chuckled dryly, "Your father was Gaff Gaffgarion? Hardly a man worth any recompense." He released his fists, crossing his arms as he smiled cruelly, "I'll give you a bushel of corn for your troubles, no more."

Galron's grip trembled as rage surged within him. "How dare you make mockery of my father!" He pushed Midori down, releasing his grip as he stepped forward, pointing the blade at Ramza. "My father was a noble and just knight who deserved nothing of the end he was given; butchered in a slum by you, a knife in his back!"

Galron's fists were shaking with raw fury, but as he stepped toward Ramza a blonde archer grabbed his shoulder. "Steady, sir knight," she cooed in a low voice, "If you give into his jibes, you'll only be losing the satisfaction of his heretic execution, and the bountiful reward."

The knight backhanded the woman, "Get your low-born hand off me, mercenary!" He scowled furiously at her, then turned his baleful eyes to Ramza, "Though Clymenstra speaks true; you nearly had me, but I look too greatly forward to your public execution, to let my sword be swayed." He rested the edge of his blade on the nape of Midori's neck, "Now choose Ramza; come quietly, or the girl dies."

Ramza sighed in defeat, extending his hands out before him. "No Ramza, don't do it!" Midori cried out to the young farmer, but was silenced when another of Galron's men grabbed her and jerked her to her feet.

"Very good, Ramza." Galron nodded and Clymenstra walked forward, securing the farmer's wrists with a set of manacles. "Estoc, bring the others, we're going."

Ramza's eyes snapped up as he saw soldiers emerge from the house, one of them dragging Cella behind him, the crying child struggling against him. "Ramza! Help me!" She cried out to the farmer, tears streaming down her tiny cheeks.

Behind her, a soldier emerged, a half-conscious Alma in his grip. She fixed her brother with weary, half-lidded eyes, vacant with illness. She staggered weakly and the soldier kept her up, granting himself liberty with her linen nightgown. As his calloused fingers slipped beneath the white fabrics, Ramza's voice erupted loudly over the stillness. "_In a war torn little town, they were lost and never found; fallen leaves, fallen leaves, fallen leaves on the ground._"

"What?" The mercenary congregation looked in confusion at Ramza as he began to sway back and forth, humming a song in rhythm to his limited movements. "I think he's finally lost it." Galron chuckled, "Edmin, get Ramza going, it's a long trek to Igros."

"_I hitched a ride . . . to Warjilis Coast . . . to leave behind . . . all of my ghosts._" The geomancer reached out, grabbing the singing Ramza by the collar. The farmer's lips curled into a smile as the mercenary began to draw him along.

Confused at first, Clymenstra screamed her warning too late, "He's Bard Chanting!"

Not understanding her alarm, the geomancer dragged Ramza forward, but the farmer countered by spinning on one heel and bringing his other foot across Edmin's chin, snapping his neck with one thrust. "_Searching for something . . . I couldn't find at hooome~._"

"Get him!" Galron kicked Midori aside and drew his sword, "Don't let him get away!" The mercenaries surged forward, only Galron and two others staying back to keep a handle on Midori and Alma.

Ramza grinned as he continued his performance. "_Can't get no job, pray spare some gil?_" Another knight advanced, but as he brought his blade up Ramza's foot flashed out, crushing his knee. "_A smoke of echo grass, to soothe my ill._" Clymenstra loosed an arrow, but Ramza sidestepped a thief, tripping him just enough to ensure the Gastrophetes' bolt sank firmly into his eye. "_I swear to God this . . . one time shall sate my fill~."_

Another mercenary swung his sword down, but Ramza braced the blade with his manacles chain, shattering the length of iron and freeing his hands. "_In a war torn little town, they were lost and never found; fallen leaves, fallen leaves, fallen leaves . . . on the ground._" The squire's second swing was fruitless; Ramza blocked his arm at the crook of the elbow, using his free hand to swing the blade around and bury it in the man's throat. "_Run away before you drown, all the streets will be shut down; fallen leaves, fallen leaves, fallen leaves . . . on the ground._"

"He's making fools of you!" Galron snarled and waved his blade toward Ramza, "Get out there and stop him! What am I paying you for?" Ramza grinned and gestured a taunt toward the knight, causing Galron to curse loudly and kick over a flower pot.

Clymenstra watched the farmer with fascination as he continued to sing, turning the attacks that came toward him back on her allies. Her company's black mage loosed a lightning bolt, but Ramza easily sidestepped it, the spell setting a ninja ablaze. As Ramza continued, she found her own mouth turning up with his infectious smile. Galron noticed her casual observation as the mercenary troupe was being demolished, and it sent him over the edge of his fury. Instead of an open-handed slap as he had prior, he struck her with one mailed fist, knocking her off the porch and into the mud. She winced and rolled onto her back, gingerly holding a hand to the bruise on her right cheek. "I can't believe you're so eager to watch your teammates be slain by that bastard, you fickle whore!"

"_I never once thought . . . I'd ever be caught! Staring at sidewalks . . . hiding my track marks! I left my best friends . . . or did they just leave meee~?_" Ramza struck a lancer with one fist, crushing his face, before grabbing his lance arm and impaling the black mage that was about the strike the farmer from behind. The two mercenaries collapsed to the ground in a font of blood, leaving Ramza the last man standing in a field of fourteen corpses. "_In a war torn little town, they were lost and never found; fallen leaves, fallen leaves, fallen leaves . . . on the grooound~._"

As Ramza finished the song, he crossed his arms and fixed his once more neutral gaze on Galron. "Fourteen mercenaries in three minutes, not bad, eh Galron? You're a serviceman, right? I haven't been in a real fight for a few years, is that still a good pace?"

Galron's face was twisted with rage, but the pale color of his cheeks told the true story; he was terrified. Midori was equally shocked at the display; the gentle farmer that she'd gotten to know was a seasoned warrior, skilled enough to kill fourteen armed men, with his hands bound no less. "My God, Lugria, what are you?"

The pained expression on Midori's face made Ramza's heart ache, but he did not show it. Galron sheathed his sword, "I may not be able to beat you, Ramza, but I will not die here." He grabbed Midori by the hair, the girl screeching in pain as he hoisted her to her feet. "We'll be making our escape, and these girls will be keeping us company as hostages. Follow, and their blood is on your hands!"

"Halt now, Galron!" Ramza thrust a hand forward as Galron and his remaining henchmen retreated into the house. Cella screamed Ramza's name as she was dragged inside, the heavy wooden door slamming shut behind her.

Staring down at the wooden barrier, Ramza felt the old war fury rising from his memories like an ancient mist. It seeped into his bones, made his pulse quicken and his reflexes tighten in anticipation. He rolled his training over in his head, carefully selecting the skills most useful to siege his own home. Walking forward, he put his foot in the center of the barred door, splintering the timber lock and sending the heavy wooden door into the center of his living room. He drew his sword from beneath the coat which hung by the door, his eyes adjusting to the din; as the sun vanished behind the hills, the unlit interior of his home became a nest of shadows, any one of which could contain a deadly adversary.

As Ramza took his first steps into the din, an enemy revealed himself; clad in full batakari, the samurai emerged from the dark, ensuring that Ramza could clearly see him, and the wicked katana he clasped in both hands. "Name yourself, villain!" Ramza pointed his sword in warning.

"I am Shiino Arska, loyal samurai in the service of Lord Gaffgarion." The samurai bowed respectfully, "You have shown yourself to be a skilled and honorable warrior, thus do I reveal myself to you, rather than strike from the shadows."

"Your honor is well regarded." Ramza let his sword down, returning it to his side. "Stand aside, noble sir, I have business with your lord."

"I cannot," Shiino took a readied stance, "I am sworn to defend my lord, so long as my sword arm is steady."

"And I am sworn to lay low any who would lay hand upon my sister." Ramza lifted the sword again, "Now, come at me as if your life depends upon it!"

Shiino roared like a lion and sprang into action, "For the honor of my lord!"

Ramza's battle cry was wordless as his boots struck the floor solidly, becoming a blur as he rushed to meet the samurai. _Be safe Alma_, he silently prayed, _I am coming for you . . ._


	5. Ramza Unleashed, part 2

Shiino drew his sword in a fearsome arc as Ramza came into range. "Flame-eating sword, swipe away the evils! Chirijiraden!" The blade of his katana erupted into flames as it swung toward the farmer's neck.

Ramza's sword flashed up, shattering the katana blade as it bit deeply into Shiino's chest, cleanly slicing through the armor; metal plates clattered to the house's wooden floor as Shiino staggered forward, collapsing with a wordless 'thud', dead. Uttering a soft prayer for the fallen samurai, the farmer continued in, footsteps hushed as he crept through the shadows, blade slick with blood. He entered another doorway and found three mercenaries waiting, Midori and Cella kept as hostages.

"Ramza!" Cella tried to run to him, but the monk's tight grip on her collar kept her from getting far. The thief beside him tightened his grip on Midori, the knife digging lightly into her throat.

"Stay back, Beoulve." Clymenstra leveled her Gastrophetes at him. "I'm not fool enough to put myself into combat with you, so I'll just keep my safe distance. Now, drop your sword and lay down, face into the floor, if you want them to live." The crossbow trembled in her hands, and as Ramza looked into her eyes, he could see that her loyalties had been shaken by Galron's earlier display.

Ramza smiled warmly at her, causing her to suck in a pensive breath. "I already swore that I would kill anyone who meant harm to those whom I protect." He glanced at her weapon, "Your grip is trembling, your loyalties damaged by Galron striking you. He held your heart at some point, yes?" She didn't respond, but tears welled in the corner of her eyes, "He has shown the truth of his care for all of you. I offer each of you this one token; I will now reclaim my friends. If you raise arms, you will die. If you do not, I will let you go free."

The thief released Midori and bolted for the door, passing Ramza, who made no move against him. Seeing his chances dwindle, the monk roared and released Cella, bolting for Ramza with lunacy in his eyes. "I'll kill you, you bastard!"

"Cast down to hell with your fingers . . ." Ramza caught the man's charge with his shoulder, striking four points on the man's chest with his open palm, "Secret Fist." The monk's eyes widened as he gasped for air, stiffening as his body went into shock. He tried to scream, but Ramza hushed him as if he were a baby. "Shush now, sirrah, your time is done." He lowered the man gently to the floor, "To angels and loved ones; to night time, to rest." The monk exhaled his dying breath and closed his eyes, a look of peace passing over his features, as if he were asleep.

Ramza picked up Cella, who immediately buried her face into his shoulder, sobbing violently. The farmer approached Clymenstra, gently taking the Gastrophetes from her unresisting fingers. "You did not attack, so I give you your life, Clymenstra."

Her gaze jumped to him as he mentioned her name, his soft eyes boring into hers. "You move like the wind . . . you fight like a demon . . . what are you?" Her voice was small and scared.

Ramza smiled warmly at her and led her to a seat, gently sitting her down. "I am a man; a man who is tired of warfare and killing. I don't want to fight anyone anymore, that's why I came here, to make a life for my sister and I, away from those who would force me to lift a blade."

"Says the man who has butchered my soldiers without pause or difficulty." Laying the bowgun next to Clymenstra, Ramza turned to see Galron clutching Alma like a shield, a knife to her throat.

"The battle is over Galron," the farmer glared angrily at him. "I give you a final chance; leave now and live."

"Oh, I'm leaving," the knight smiled as he tightened his grip on the dagger, "I know that I cannot defeat you. However, I can force upon you the feelings I gained at your hands; to watch someone you love die, and be unable to do anything about it."

Ramza's face went pale as Gaffgarion's son moved to slit the girl's throat, his feet moving as if slowed as he made to charge him. Something brushed his ear, and in a blur, a crossbow bolt sunk into the knight's hand. Galron screamed in pain, dropping the dagger, "Clymenstra, even you?"

The archer scowled at him, the bow gun still in her fist, "Ramza offered you a third chance to leave with your life, and still you deny it, choosing to kill the girl in cold blood." She reloaded the weapon, "I have seen this heretic serve God's mercy with tempered wisdom, while you show your true colors to be as black as hate."

Ramza's hand flared with blue light, "Even trying to kill me, I offered you peace and safe departure. But now, you spit in my eye and try to murder my sister?"

Protectively clutching his hand against him, Galron made a sign of peace. "I see now the error of my ways, and I will go in peace. You will never see me again."

"Yes, I will never see you again," Ramza brought his glowing palm up, "But no, you will not leave in peace." Releasing Alma, Galron turned to flee, but Ramza's mouth was already forming the words to seal the knight's fate. "Brush off vanity, and show reality . . . Ultima!" The powerful magical blast burst forth from the farmer's hand, streaking after the cowardly Galron; it gently caressed Alma's face, a touch as delicate as a lover as it sent a wave through her amber hair, a euphoric expression on her face as death kissed her cheek and continued on.

"No, Ramza, have mercy!" The plea turned into a wretched scream as the magic struck him full in the back. As if he were dust and shadows, the blue light seared him, body and soul, utterly vaporizing the fool-hardy man. Midori clasped her hands over Cella's ears and buried the young girl's face in her chest, shielding her from the horrific sight as Galron Gaffgarion was forever erased from the annuls of creation. The terrible beauty of the blast seemed to last forever, but in an instant it was gone, and all that remained of Galron was a burn mark in the wooden floor of the house.

Alma swayed on her feet, but as she began to fall her brother was there, sweeping her up as if she were a baby. He cradled her tightly, almost crying, "I am so glad you're safe, little sister."

* * *

Later on, by the light of a dozen lanterns, Ramza diligently buried the bodies of Galron's men in unsigned graves, save Shiino Arska, whom he marked with a wooden post and ink, reminding himself to have a proper headstone made. Midori had taken Cella and Alma inside, setting them both about the task of brewing a pot of coffee and a late night snack of bread and milk; only Clymenstra remained outside, sitting on the porch as she watched the heretic labor into the dark as he buried each corpse with compassion, as if each had been kin, not mercenaries drunk on gold lust. As he set about filling in the last grave, she surprised herself by breaking the silence. "How did you do it?"

"I'm sorry?" Ramza glanced over his shoulder at her.

"You were bard chanting, casting magic to increase your strength, or your speed maybe, the entire time you were killing the mercenaries." She shook her head, "Everyone knows you cannot take offensive action while doing it. So, how did you do it?"

"I wasn't attacking," Ramza returned to digging.

"Goblin shit you weren't!" The archer banged her fist on the deck, "You killed those men, one attack each. If that isn't attacking, then I'm a chocobo."

Ramza said nothing as he continued on, and unwilling to press the issue, Clymenstra lapsed into silence. As the farmer stabbed the last grave marker into the earth he turned, casting aside his shovel. "Come at me."

"Beg your pardon?" It was Clymenstra's turn to gaze in bafflement. "I don't think so; I've seen what you can do."

"You wanted to know how I did it." Ramza smirked and assumed the same sing-song sway as he had before, his hands behind his back. "_Is it worth the pain . . .? With no one to blame . . ."_ He began to sing again, smiling coquettishly, "_For all of my insecurities, how did I ever . . . let . . . you . . . go?"_ Clymenstra rushed in and swung her fist at his face; Ramza leaned back, allowing her hand to brush within a breath of his lips as he dropped and spun in synch with her moves. His foot slipped out and across the back of her knee, his arms snaring around her waist, and as he came around she found herself upside down, trapped in position to have her brains dashed out upon the stone walkway. "Hamedo," was all he said before setting her upright and moving to collect his tools.

Blushing fiercely after being within kissing distance of the handsome farmer, Clymenstra didn't really understand his word for a few moments. "Hamedo . . . the monk art of preemptive counter . . ." Her eyes lit up, "You were using Hamedo to pre-empt their attacks!"

"Hamedo to see them coming, and to defend myself, while allowing their own actions to put them in harm's way; I've had a lifetime to make a trade at hurting people, not that I'm proud of it." Ramza did not smile while he spoke.

"It's brilliant!" Clymenstra grabbed his sleeves, jerking him around to face her, "Using the bard chant to heighten your own skills, while using the Hamedo to keep your enemies from damaging you! It's sheer genius! Lord Beoulve, your mastery of warfare is incredible!"

"Oh, so it's 'Lord Beoulve' now, is it?" Ramza and Clymenstra turned to see Midori standing on the porch, a look of betrayal on her face.

"Midori, I-" Ramza approached his friend slowly, his arms out to her.

Midori cut him off with a turn, "Don't 'Midori' me, Lugria or Beoulve or whoever the hell you are!" She slapped the farmer across the face, knocking him off the porch and onto the grass, stunning him. "I thought I knew you, trusted you with mine and my daughter's lives. Now I come to find out you're a heretic, and some kind of demon warrior; how long before you killed Cella, or me, or Alma? Oh my god," she put one hand over her mouth, "Did you do this to her? Did she watch you murder people and become traumatized?"

"Midori," Ramza's voice took on a stern edge, "You're overreacting. You know me."

"Do I?" She shook her head, "I knew Ramza Lugria, the farmer who moved out of the city to make his sister safer, so that she could rest and regain her health in the country, away from the famine and poverty that's polluted Ivalice. But Ramza Beoulve, the man who slaughtered a dozen armed mercenaries while singing; the man who killed someone by touching their chest, who evaporated a fully armored man who was pleading for his life-"

"That is enough!" Clymenstra snarled and waved Midori away, "How dare you preach against Lord Beoulve! Daft farm girl, have you been kicked in the head by a cuar? You're so quick to forget the sword that Gaffgarion had clasped to your neck moments before; you should be on your knees thanking him, not condemning him for lifting his blade to save your fool self."

The archer would have continued, but Ramza laid a hand on her shoulder. "No, Clymenstra, that's enough."

"But my lord, I-"

"No," Ramza smiled at her, making the mercenary's cheeks burn with a blush, "I appreciate your desire to defend me against the impugning of my character, but Midori has as much a right to her opinions as you do." He walked up to the farm woman, clasping both her hands in his. Midori's face paled as the man she loved came so close to her, but she willed herself not to show any signs of weakness. "I am sorry I lied to you, you deserve to know the truth. My name is Ramza Beoulve, and I am the last of the Beoulve family. Throughout the War of the Lions, my family became entrenched in the debauchery and depravity around it, resorting to assassination and political sabotage to try and secure its position in history. My sister was to become a sacrificial lamb, and I gave up everything to make sure she would not die to further the goals of our brother Dycedarg, eventually killing him in pitched combat. My best friend Delita ascended the throne, a puppet of the church, and I was content to spend the rest of my days taking care of my sister."

"Ramza," Cella's small voice called from the farm house doorway, and as the farmer moved to view her, the small girl's eyes brightened considerably. "Alma asked for you. She's gone to lie down."

"Thank you, Sunshine," Ramza kissed the girl on the forehead as he passed her, eliciting a delighted giggle. Cella set about skipping around the kitchen as she put dishes away, humming happily.

Observing the happy girl, Clymenstra grinned conspiratorially at Midori. "You can admit you're envious of the attention your daughter gets. I know I am."

"Shut up."

* * *

Knocking politely, Ramza let himself into his sister's room, finding her tucked securely into bed. "You wanted to see me, Alma?"

"Ramza," the girl's voice was small and tired. "Those men . . . who were they?"

Smiling sadly, Ramza entered her room, his feet making no noise as he crossed the wooden floor boards, gently sitting on the side of her bed. "They were mercenaries, after me. Don't worry, they won't be coming back."

"I'm so sorry . . . I didn't want to be trouble."

"Silly girl." Ramza chuckled and gently brushed the golden hair from her forehead, "You're no trouble at all. You're my sister, you could never trouble me."

"Do you still love me?" The girl opened her arms to him, smiling childishly, eyes still closed.

Ramza pulled her close in a hug, "What a foolish question. Of course I love you. Nothing could ever make me not love you."

"It made me thirst for you." The strange huskiness Alma's voice assumed made the hairs on Ramza's neck stand on end, disconcerting him enough that he moved Alma enough to see her. "The sight of you, blasting that self-righteous sell sword out of existence with magic, MY magic . . ." Alma's eyes, once closed, now opened wide, basking the farmer in their blood-like glow. "Never have I desired the touch of a man so greatly as I do now. Take me, Ramza Beoulve, despoil my innocent flesh!"

"Alm-mmmMMMMMM?" her chest heaving, Alma hurled herself at Ramza, silencing the question as she clamped their mouths together, hungrily sucking on his tongue. Her strength was incredible, but slowly, Ramza forced himself free of her iron grip. "What the hell has come over you Alma? Wait . . ." He stared deeply into her eyes, blue orbs probing the depth of her ruby-like irises. "You're not . . ." a shudder ran through him, his face blanching a ghostly white, "You're . . . you're Altima!"


	6. A Brush with Death

The crisp night air bit at Ramza's face as he urged his wagon along the muddy road to Dorter, the stinging breeze bringing tears to his eyes. Sitting on the bench next to him, Clymenstra wrapped herself in his coat, warding off both the chill wind and the chilling spectacle that had beset them both hours before.

"_Altima," Ramza struggled against the powerful grip of the thing that controlled his sister, "Begone from my sister this instant, you are not welcome here."_

"_Oh Ramza, you wound me." The creature feigned sadness, "To be spurned by their lovers has compelled many a young girl to hurl herself over a cliff or upon the point of a knife." Her eyes drifted down to the blade Ramza had set upon the bedclothes, "Perhaps your sword would be most fitting to be adorned by this weakening heart."_

_Ramza released Altima and swatted his blade away, sending it across the room with a loud crash; with one of his hands not upon her, Altima easily drew her host's brother into a cruel mockery of a lover's embrace. "There, is this not better?"_

"_I would say 'not' is most correct." Ramza struggled vainly to escape Altima's embrace, but found himself helpless as she lowered him onto his back, herself upon his chest."You cannot act out this perversion within my sister's flesh, you pit spawn, you heathen she-beast!" His voice was an angry his, not wanting his voice to call others to witness the spectacle he was bound in._

_Altima smiled with lazy, drunken red eyes, "Sadly, you are correct; at this moment, I cannot, for my control over sweet Alma is still so weak. But as she grows closer to death, my strength will increase, and the moment she dies I will take her flesh for my own." Her grip was loosening as she drew closer, her mouth an inch from Ramza's ear. "And once this body is mine, I will do such . . . deliciously sinful . . . things . . . with you . . . Ram . . . za . . ."_

_Alma went slack, the weight of her unconscious body pressing heavily upon Ramza's chest, and as she fell into deep fluttering breaths, he knew that Altima's influence had left her. But her words echoed in his ears; she was right, he could tell she was weakening. Over the past months her breath had begun to grow shallow, her complexion pale, her pulse weak and her manner listless. Much as their father had done before the War of the Lions, she was slowly wasting away before his eyes; but unlike Balbanes, who in his end was interred within Ivalice's earthen womb, she would become host to an ancient and ungodly evil which would use her girlish innocence to perpetrate horrible acts of perversion and carnage upon all of the world._

_Wrapping her tightly in warm blankets to keep out the night's chill, he went to his bedroom and withdrew an ancient chest from his closet, sighing heavily as if to steel himself for the coming trials. The well-oiled lock opened with but the barest hint of a click, revealing his armor and weapons to the room's flickering candle light. "Cure you, Fate, for the bitter mockery of it all." _

_The gleaming cache of weapons was rewarded by a gasp, and as he shifted his gaze, he could see Clymenstra in the doorway; she said nothing, but the look in her eyes told him that she had seen everything. "My sister is a victim, and I will stop at nothing to see this put to rights." Ramza cast his baggy muslin shirt to the floor and turned his back to the archer as he began to don his armor, "I have given you your life, Clymenstra, I encourage you to do good of it."_

_She stared mutely at him as he meticulously dressed for battle; his body, what she could see of him, was dressed in scars. The flawless definition of his muscles pressed at his skin as if he were sculpted of stone, not flesh, each pale line or bygone wound stood like a testament to the power that was Ramza Beoulve. To say she was in love with the man would be a lie; in truth, she hardly knew him. But he had shown here more kindness and honesty in the short time that she had, than most of those she would call friends or partners. His eyes were without guile, his words rang with stark honesty; she could not imagine not following him into the gates of Hell itself if he were going. She was smitten, in a way, by the totality of Ramza; he made her WANT to be a better person, she craved his approval, perhaps even hoped it might lead to something more._

_As Ramza turned, he found her kneeling before him, her bow gun outstretched. "Lord Beoulve," she said in a soft tone, "I forswear my undying loyalty to you."_

"_Don't be a fool," Ramza's face hardened at her words, "You cannot know what you sign your soul to with those words."_

_She rose swiftly, her own face hard. He could see the stubborn fire in her face, screaming 'Don't you DARE to try and deny me' as loudly as a behemoth's roar. "Lord Beoulve, I do not know what trials you face, only that you will need allies. You have given me a second chance at life and I choose to use it to make amends for the cruel acts I have perpetrated. Now accept my pledge, or so help me, I'll make you eat that armor."_

_They held each other's defiant gaze for several long seconds, neither willing to rescind their position. Slowly, finally, Ramza turned away as he scooped Alma's sleeping form into his arms. "Very well then, Clymenstra, now grab that chest and follow me. We have business in Dorter."_

"Ramza!" The archer jostled her companion gently, "Are you well? Need I take the reigns?"

From the expression on her face, Ramza figured he must have not responded to prior words his new ally had issued. "No Clymenstra, I am well." He forced a soft smile, albeit a weary one, "I am merely thinking of where to proceed next."

"I thought that Dorter held the answers you sought." Clymenstra scooted closer, resting her knee against his leg as she leaned in, "What has changed?"

"The nature of the problem, I'm afraid." Ramza urged the horses onward, "Were it simply a sickness, I would be confident in Cleigh's ability to replenish Alma's depleted health. However this, it requires the serves of a higher power."

"That may be difficult, given your status as a heretic." Clymenstra bowed her head in thought, "Perhaps we might find a sage at Orbonne Monastery who would see us?"

"No, there is only one person who can help us," Ramza squinted into the darkness, reigning the horses to stop on the dark road, "Clymenstra, give me the black staff with the red crystal in its head, please."

Clymenstra reached into the chest of weapons, kept in the wagon's back beside the sleeping Alma, and handed him the heavy rod. "What do you see?"

"I am not sure, but I feel that it is problematic." He thrust the black mage's rod forward, "Strip away the ground with glistening blades! Bolt!"

The shimmering fork of energy split the sky as it raced downward, kissing the earth as a tree erupted into flames. The flickering light revealed two figures standing in the road's center, seeming to appear from the abyssal shadows. One, a fat merchant, smiled pleasantly at the pair. His guardian, a soldier with a blade kept on his hilt, eyed them suspiciously. "Why how very fortunate for me, but we have found none other but Ramza Beoulve himself. What a pleasant surprise."

The hairs on Ramza's neck bristled as the silky, dulcet tone of the merchant's voice crawled across his skin as if it were an unclean thing. "I am at a loss, sirrah, for I do not know your face, yet you seem to know mine. What, pray tell, would you be called?"

"You needn't be concerned for my pride, young sirrah, for I would not expect you to know me. We have ne'er met in the flesh before, but I am most deeply honored to bear this gift."

"What gift is that, sirrah, who has yet to share his, and his companion's names?" Ramza tightened his grip on the staff, allowing his mind to cycle through the repertoire of skills he had learned over the years past.

"Of course, please pardon my rudeness." The merchant smiled, a mirthless expression. "My bodyguard is called Gilgamesh, and I, and Lucavi." The warrior's back seemed to explode as arms with blades upon blades erupted from his body, each deadly weapon gleaming in the firelight. "And the gift of which I speak, is the privilege of being the one who watches you die."

* * *

Within Goug's winding catacombs, the group of observes stood in almost transfixed awe at the spectacle before them; thirteen zodiac stones each bearing the spirit of a vile monster, pulsed with sepulchral light that painted the gray walls to appear as dour church windows, anointing everything around them in sickly dark hues of light. The engineer stared with great unease at this display, wondering what it could mean. The knight and his lady friend showed no emotion as they dark colors throbbed around them, but she slipped her hand into his for comfort, which he greatly appreciated. The construct watched the light show with unblinking red orbs, their glow serving to break the periodic darkness. After several long minutes of the glowing, the engineer turned, "So, you see why this unsettles me so?"

"Indeed," the knight nodded stiffly. "I know not what it means, but the lights . . . they put a deathly chill in my soul."

"Agreed, Beowulf, but to what end?" Mustadio crossed his arms and bowed his head in contemplation, "I don't know what it could mean either; the act is so ambiguous a thing, and yet, it feels so maligned."

"They're excited," Reis' soft whisper echoed through the cavern, "Something draws near, and its presence arouses their consciousnesses, all." Her face held a look of horror, and as Beowulf wrapped his arms around her, he found his beloved was shivering fiercely within his embrace. "The dancing lights are not unlike a rapturous orgy, held to herald the coming of something that brings death."

"The death of whom?"

"Of us all." Beowulf curled his lover into his arms, shielding her from the lights, but as he met Mustadio's eyes, he found the engineer terrified. He could only hope that his own expression were not as fear-fractured as he felt.


	7. The Wrath of Ramza

Gilgamesh' blades were drawn, and Clymenstra screamed as fear overtook her; she had expected soldiers and monsters. But this thing, this man of many arms and many more weapons, was too much for her. Her mind was screaming at her to flee, to run into the night for only death waited for her on the path she travelled. But what scared her greater still, was Ramza; as she turned to him to plead that they escape, his face froze her. It was not angry, nor terrified, but serene; his eyes were cool as death, his mouth as mild as morning dew, and as he slowly rose from the wagon's seat she stopped being afraid of what Gilgamesh and his master might do to them, and became afraid of what Ramza, to them, would do.

"You are starting to bore me, merchant." Ramza returned the staff to the weapons chest, drawing his ancient sword and slinging a second weapon across his back. Although he could not see whatever it was that the farmer had taken to his back, the blade's insignia was stamped onto the hilt, and it drew a hiss from Lucavi's throat. "Another day, I might have laughed you and your mercenary off, but this is not a day in which my mood is found to be pleasant."

"Your mood matters little to me," Gilgamesh drew back his weapons, "I care only for the rattle in your throat as you die!"

As the many blades descended upon Ramza, he did not falter in his step; with preternatural speed he drew his blade, swinging it in an arc over his head. The golden knight's sword cut cleanly through each weapon it touched, shearing sword and axe apart like tissue paper; the second swing brought him closer to the monstrosity, and as it had with the weapons, the blade parted Gilgamesh's body in kind. Flesh smoked and hissed when split, bone shattering, and Gilgamesh's cry turned from fury to agony as Ramza's attack littered the ground in Gilgamesh' severed arms. Gilgamesh fell to the ground, writhing and howling like a wounded dog, as Ramza towered over him. "May whatever life awaits you in this next world, find you a better man." He thrust the sword into Gilgamesh' chest, piercing his heart and slaying the demon; a font of black blood and sulphurous smoke erupted from the wound, "Do not worry, your master is soon behind."

"Excalibur," Lucavi's voice was a mixture of loathing and awe as Ramza leveled the blade at him, "That the sword of kings lies in the hands of a traitorous pauper, how ironic. It is to laugh."

"Then let laughter carry you into t he next life." Ramza stabbed the holy sword into Lucavi, "Or to Murond, whichever you prefer."

Lucavi howled in pain, smoke and black flame spewing from the wound in his chest as the holy sword began to turn red with heat. It was that reaction which broke Ramza's cool façade, causing him to step back as the first sign of fear came to his face. "Pain! Pain! Oh, this blade is a chorus of angels that sings of my agony!" The merchant's fat belly began to change; his flesh sprouted coarse brown hair, his teeth grew sharp and crooked, even cracked. He tore at his clothes, allowing Ramza to see his mortal skin split and rot away, revealing powerful satyr-like legs. The flesh of his brow split, allowing black horns to rise from peeking glimpses of skull. "A thousand curses upon you, Ramza Beoulve, for this torture."

"Take flight, beast!" Ramza found his voice and shouted, hand passing to the parcel upon his back, "You inhuman monstrosity, I know no who nor what you are! But get thee hence, I command you, unclean thing!" Finally, howls of agony intensified by the thick curls of black smoke which spewed from his hands as he grappled with the enchanted blade, Lucavi managed to pull the holy sword from his breast. He dropped it, and before Ramza's eyes, the demon's blood ate away at the gleaming sword, rotting it apart. In seconds, Excalibur, the golden sword of kings, was destroyed by the foul humors of this Lucavi. The sight made Ramza sick. "By the gods of Ivalice, what manner of gross inhuman thing are you?"

It took awhile for the pain to subside, but as it did, the goat-man-monster began to laugh; the sepulchral tone was like madness in both Ramza and Clymenstra's ears, and as the warrior backed away, the beast retook its footing. "That was most impressive, Ramza; I was arrogant, and it might have cost me my life, were it not for the fact that I am immortal!" Rising to full height, roaring with a horrible noise that echoed for miles, Lucavi's breath spewed out of his porcine mouth in great tendrils of rancid steam. In his true form, the devil was twice the height of any man, and Ramza felt for the first time that there was no way to kill his foe. "Now, I will give you a chance to speak before I devour your soul. Plead or pray, it matters not, your fate is sealed."

"Then I choose one thing to say," Ramza drew the weapon from his back, drawing the wrappings away to reveal a Stone Gun. _"Great tree of life, inject rotten extract! Zombie!"_

Ramza's spell washed over Lucavi, rotting his flesh and turning his aura to that of the undead. The beast chuckled, "How very droll. Is this the best you could do to stop me? Will you now cure me?"

"No," Ramza sighted down on him, "I will use a skill taught to me by an old friend, to put you away forever. _Age, now pass for the ageless and bind darkness in fossilized flesh! Seal Evil!"_

The gun's barrel flared with copper light as the magical shell burst forth, piercing Lucavi's chest. Black blood spurted out, and as they watched, creeping stone began to whither his flesh. "What? Impossible!" Lucavi began to tear at his skin, ripping it away, only to reveal more stone. "This parlor trick cannot ensnare me, Ramza!" His arms began to stiffen, his fingers locking into place; even the hairs of his body began to harden, chipping and flaking off as the rigid material was brushed or moved by his monstrous hands. "I cannot fall like this! I am Lucavi, kingdoms are . . . fated to fall . . . to . . . me . . ." His body hardened and turned gray, and before Ramza and Clymenstra's eyes, Lucavi was rendered into a statue. The gray, lifeless eyes glared through them, his snarl frozen in eternity.

"All that is fated to fall," Ramza pushed Lucavi with one booted foot, causing the statue to rock backward, "Is you." The figure lurched backward, striking the ground with a heavy thud; cracks ran through it, and with a series of loud pops, it came apart into large pieces. "I have slain Altima, denounced Saint Ajora, and out-maneuvered the armies of Larg and Orinas. You, shadow of man's fears, are nothing."

Leaving the ruined holy sword behind, Ramza climbed into the wagon seat and urged the horses on. Clymenstra spoke not a word to him; Ramza Beoulve seemed kind on his surface, but once the glass-like pristineness of his patience was broken, he was a devastating force of nature. Clymenstra saw this, and it chilled her through the marrow.

* * *

Stirred from his sleep, Desmond Cleigh made clumsy passage down the cool stone steps of his house in Dorter, his naked feet slapping softly against the hard floor as he moved sleepily toward the rapid pounding on his door, his long brown robes whispering softly as they dragged across the floor. Outside, the thunder boomed across the dark sky, the wild sound of sheet rain assaulting the earth nearly deafening in the din. "I assure you, I am coming." He said with a small degree of annoyance; since the war's end, injuries in Dorter never were more pressing than a leg or arm broken when falling from a horse, or the odd case of influenza; certainly nothing to warrant this maniacal attempt to politely beat down his door.

As the chemist opened his door, he was shocked to find a rain-soaked Ramza standing before him, an unconscious girl on his back; across the road, standing under the shelter of the bakery's roof, was a slender woman in traveller's clothes. She eye'd Ramza with no small degree of unsettlement, something that did not escape Desmond's eye. "Master Lugria?"

"Please, Doctor Cleigh, let us in." Ramza's voice was wrought, "Her condition is much worse than before." He entered, gratefully, as the chemist moved aside "She's taken to having fits, calling herself Altima, her fever is also gone up quite a lot. Interrupted a clave of ruffians who had set about robbing us, when ir eturned from our last meeting. She was not hurt, but I fear the stress . . ."

"Calling herself the bloody angel, eh?" Desmond smirked as he followed the brother and sister duo, leaving the main door open for Clymenstra to follow, should she choose. "Is Alma a religious sort? Does she attend confession at mass? At times, delirious connections with the righteous angel of slaughter can often be a sign of some great unspoken guilt."

"We are not religious folk, Doctor." Ramza laid her down on the chaise, "I work the fields alone, and she is sick. Neither of us has time. I hope you understand."

Desmond snorted a laugh, "Understand you have better things to do than give a day up to be told judgmental fairytales? Pish tosh, Master Lugria, I wish others had your common sense."

"Then you don't believe in Altima?"

"I think mankind has enough evil in itself that it needs not an icon to blame it upon."

Ramza relaxed visibly, "Bless my fortunes, I was afraid that these . . . elements of her illness might prompt a less scientific response in her care provider."

"Not from me," Desmond pressed a cool cloth to her heaving bosom, feeling her short, frenzied breaths. "My disconcert comes from full logic. The rain shower has been most fortuitous, the cool water has forced her fever to go down, I think. She needs rest, as do you; perhaps you and your wife should go find a room down at the inn."

"My wife?" Ramza looked over his shoulder. Clymenstra had come in from the rain, but still opted to keep her distance from him. "Ah, Clymenstra is not my wife; Alma is all I have."

Desmond nodded, readjusting his glasses. "Regardless, you both look harried by the journey. Get rest, I will tend to Alma through the night."

"Thank you, Doctor." Clymenstra and Ramza both bowed as they departed, returning to the howl of the storm. They walked for a long time in silence, Ramza's frame bold against the wind and rain, Clymenstra huddling hers behind him, shielding herself from the cold water that soaked through the thin muslin of her shirt. "I thank you for your assistance, Clymenstra," Ramza said quietly as they walked, "I understand if you've changed your mind about travelling with me."

"No one could blame me," she said after several terse minutes, "what with demons and assassins shadowing your every step."

"You would not be the first ally to leave this path." What struck her most was the chord of despondence in his voice as he spoke the words; a simple phrase, but wrought with sadness, loneliness. They were silent the rest of the way to Dubrovnya's Inn, a rowdy place filled with mercenaries and rogues alike. Ramza did not spend time sight-seeing within the ranks of the room, knowing that Clymenstra would know who most, if not all, of the diners were. "We need two rooms for the night."

The barkeep, a large man who obviously thought that Ramza was too young to be in the bar, smirked. "Ain't got two rooms available."

"The girly can stay in our room!" The catcall from the active patrons resulted in peals of laughter from the rest of the people present.

Clymenstra sighed and took the offered key from the inn keeper, "One room will be fine, thanks." Not waiting for Ramza to pay, she walked upstairs, locating the room number to match the key. As she opened the door she looked back at Ramza as he came up the stairwell, "You coming, m'lord?"

Ramza followed, gently closing the door behind him. "You don't have to call me that, Clymenstra, you owe me no fealty or title."

"I don't know what to call you: Ramza, Lugria, Lord Beoulve, heretic, monster. The titles and words don't seem to fit." She turned to look at him, frustratedly brushing rain-sopped hair from her face, "One minute you're some hayseed farmer, then a sagely ex-soldier trying to talk me out of stupidly fighting alongside Gaffgarion, then some manner of sword-shattering demon with ice for bodily humours. Who are you?"

"As I said, I am the last of the Beoulves, heretic of the church. I have never taken the life of a another unless to not would have meant losing my own, and each man snuffed by my sword weighs as heavily around my neck as iron chains. I have stared clergymen-turned-demons in the eyes and waged battle against them; I have faced against the forces of Prince Orinas and Prince Larg, even those of King Delita . . ." The expression he wore as he told her the story was not one of pride or confession, merely acceptance; many men would wear such victories like a badge of courage, but he bore it without note. It merely was what it was.

The mercenary listened patiently as he told her the story of the War of the Lions as he had lived it, first a tool of politics, then the church, and finally as a man who desperately sought to escape the yoke of an unfair destiny. At times she found herself smiling with him, at others, she found tears that he too had once shed. She felt the heat of injustice and rage burn her cheeks at times, but through the narrative, he was a stony as if he were merely reading a book, not chronicling the life of Ivalice's greatest secret. As he drew to an end they fell into silence, perched on opposite sides of the room's narrow bed.

"I would not begrudge you for departing," Ramza sighed quietly, "My life is not one I would wish on anyone."

"Oh stow it, Ramza." She said curtly, stretching her arms above her head, "I'm not going anywhere." He smiled at her, but said nothing, which made her blush. "Your story sounds like an easy way to make the kind of money I want, and honestly, I feel like I owe you for the business with Gaffgarion, so we'll just go on, agreed?"

"Agreed."

"Good," she yawned and stretched again, "Now you've talked us through the bulk of the night. I think we need to get some rest." Having said it, she reached down, and jerked her jerkin up over her head, exposing moon pale flesh.

Ramza nearly choked as he covered his eyes, "Clymenstra, please, you're undergarments."

"Don't wear any."

His cheeks burned, "Yes, that's what I mean, you're quite undressed, and it isn't proper for two people to be in such a state."

"Then fix it," she stuck her tongue out between her teeth as she grabbed his baggy shirt and jerked it off of him.

"Clymenstra, please!" He squeezed his eyes shut. "This sort of thing isn't proper!"

"Oh you wish," she smirked, "Uncover your eyes, Lord Innocence." He did so slowly, discovering her undressed, wearing his much larger shirt as a night shirt. "My clothes are drenched, and I can't very well sleep naked, unwed, next to a handsome soldier like you." She feigned a maidenly blush, "A strong man among men such as you might ruin me for any future husband, oh how embarrassing. Your lust for debauchery shines in your eyes!" She broke down into raucous laughter.

Ramza frowned, anger hiding his embarrassment, "Mock me if you would, woman. Get it out of your system now." He laid down on the bed, his back to her as he kicked off his boots. "Get some rest, the next leg of our journey will not be so easy."

"I'm not concerned, m'lord," she curled up to his back, her hot breath burning the cool flesh of his neck as her arms curled around his chest. "I know that you will protect me."

"Clymenstra . . ." he chided her quietly, but she did not respond. The soft sound of her snoring reached his ears as he adjusted himself, finding the woman asleep an instant after her head touched the pillow, ". . . goodnight."

She murmured softly and readjusted herself to his posture, burying her face in his chest. As he stared at the tangled locks of blond hair pressed against him, he felt his eyes begin to droop. He gave into sleep, his dreams haunted by a beautiful woman with golden tresses, a princess clad in battle-hardened mithril and adamant. Her hard eyes hardened the soft curves of her beautiful mouth, lips like red satin, skin like cherry blossoms.

_Agrias, please . . ._


	8. Plots are Laid

The rain slowly began to peter out, the furious hailing of heavenly tears slowing to a droning white noise, and finally to nothingness; the night was quiet and heavy, moisture hanging in the air like unspun cotton. Even the animal sounds died away; rustling of chocobos in the woods, red panthers hunting for a late meal, even the grass and trees faded into the quiet. And then, the new sounds began.

A click, then another, then shuffling and creaking; slowly, awkwardly stumbling from the shadows, the skeletons came; seven of the undead monstrosities shambled toward the scene of the battle. They paused, regarding the mutilated corpse of the soldier with empty, unfeeling eye holes, before moving along to the crumbled stone body of Lucavi. They worked with meticulous patience, slowly moving the sometimes ponderous stones of the shattered beast's body until he was lying on the ground, vaguely reassembled. The stone eyes opened, and as if commanded by an unheard voice, the undead stepped back from Lucavi's prone form. The stone pieces cracked, melting into rendered fat and putrefied flesh that flowed and rejoined each bit of fetid meat, until the demon had reformed once more into the corpulent merchant.

"Ah, _merci_ my cadaverous cohorts," Lucavi climbed up from the ground, bare feet sinking into the rain-sodden earth of the Dorter - Fovoham trade road as he walked over to the lifeless body of Gilgamesh. The soldier was a mess, from the bloody stumps of his severed limbs, to the ragged hole in his chest. Lucavi shook his head sadly at the lifeless corpse, "Poor creature, brought down by that damned boy. Worry not, I have use for you still." He held a hand over the mangled corpse, "Aurora, give a new life to this shell. Dark Animation!"

There was an ominous rumble from the heavens as they were torn open, a deluge of rain exploding down upon the demon and his skeleton allies. There was a great clap of thunder, and a bolt of indigo lightning leapt from the heavens and lanced into the hole within Gilgamesh's chest. The soldier came alive with a screech, his body thrashing its mangled limbs wildly as agony tore into his consciousness. The soul of the corrupted mercenary was ripped from whatever Hell it had languished in upon his demise, dragged through the aethyr, and forced back into its body. Gilgamesh screamed until there was no air in his lungs, struggling and thrashing, until the lightning-induced spasms subsided. Only then did he look upon the face of his master, "Master, I'm . . . sorry. I failed you."

"No Gilgamesh, it is I who failed you." He gestured to the skeletons, who moved to collect the fallen soldier's limbs, putting them to their stumps so that the wounds would seal. "I underestimated our quarry; he is not some one-faceted opponent to be overwhelmed and crushed. Ramza Beoulve faced down the most powerful men in all of Ivalice, brought their armies to a standstill, and changed the face of the autocracy. He is a man who defeated the second incarnation of the Zodiac Braves and Altima herself, with a group of four soldiers."

Reassembled, Gilgamesh climbed to his feet, drawing his extra arms and weapons into his body once more. "How can we hope to overcome so fearsome an opponent?"

Lucavi chuckled and patted the soldier as if he were a dog. "In time, Gilgamesh, in time; but for now," his gaze wandered, settling on a lone farmhouse in the distance, "I need some clothes."

"At once, my lord." Gilgamesh drew his blade and turned, marching toward the house and its unsuspecting residents, with Lucavi close behind. The four skeletons followed behind without a word.

"And she's not awoken yet?" Ramza's voice held a note of concern as he set down the delicate cup of tea that Desmond had offered him. Come the morning, Ramza and Clymenstra had both returned to the chemist's home to inquire as to Alma's condition. However, the man had refused to discuss anything business-related until after breakfast, which consisted of an elaborate setting of sweet rolls and assorted preserves.

Desmond savored a crisp pastry dripping with apricot jam, chewing thoroughly. "No, she's slept peacefully since your arrival last night. Her pulse and breathing seem quite stable, but the sleep is deep."

"Hrrm, this is somewhat unfortunate." Ramza sighed and sat back in the chair, folding his hands in his lap; the pastries looked elegant, but he had no appetite. "I need to travel to Gariland on business, which could take me several days, perhaps a week or two. Perhaps I should hold off until she's lucid."

"Pish, tosh." Clymenstra, on the way to consuming her fourth such pastry, dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. "There's no telling how long it might take her to come around, and this trip is in regards to getting her help, right?" She popped the last corner into her mouth, reaching for another. "I say we go, and trust Master Cleigh to take care of her."

"Indeed." Smiling, Desmond handed her another pastry, "I don't want your search to be interrupted. Your sister will be fine in my care, and I will make sure to keep her true identity secret. No one will know that there is a Beoulve in my care."

"Your discretion is much appreciated, Desmond." Ramza rose from the chair, "Then it's settled; Clymenstra and I will travel to Gariland, and hopefully, our return shall find my sister awake and aware. I trust you to take good care of her in my absence."

"The Hippocratic oath commands it." The chemist smiled warmly and handed Clymenstra the plate of pastries, "Take as many as you like, young miss."

"Was gonna."

Ramza shook his head as his companion loaded her satchel with the confections, "How gracious of you, Desmond. I know my sister's wellbeing is secured." Bowing politely, Ramza excused himself. "Try not to eat our host out of house and home, Clymenstra."

"Mffnt gmmuh!" Mumbling her thanks as she stuffed another pastry into her mouth, Clymenstra ran after Ramza, her hurried footfalls echoing down the corridor.

Watching them go, Desmond couldn't help but smile. Regardless of the seriousness of their quest, some degree of levity could be found in camaraderie. After several seconds their footsteps vanished behind a closing door, plunging the house into silence. Desmond Cleigh took a long sip of tea, "They're gone now."

"Took them long enough," the woman's sultry, smoky voice drifted around the room in a sensual echo as she descended the stairs. Her bare feet made little to no sound as she emerged from the shadowed hallway, wrapped in the linens she had taken from the bed that Ramza had tucked her into earlier. Altima, her ruby gaze peering out from Alma's sweet face, draped one naked arm around Desmond's shoulder. "Ramza is proving to be a difficult conquest, not like you and your ilk, eh Desmond?"

Desmond's smile dipped, "Yes, I'd say that our group was unprepared to deal with such a monster." The last word left his mouth with a snarl.

"A monster?" Altima feigned injury, "Back when I was travelling with you and the other Zodiac Braves you called me many things, many . . . many things," she chewed teasingly on her lower lip, "But I don't think you ever called me that."

"No, we were too drunk on our own power and too eager to be praised by a beautiful creature who told us that we were going to change the world." Desmond's face was sorrowful, his eyes distant. "We were all farmers and blacksmiths and sheep herders who wanted desperately to believe that we were destined for greater things."

"And you were," she stroked his face absently, as if he were a cherished pet or a distressed child. "I gave you such wonderful power; eternal youth, amazing strength, how can you call me a monster?"

"You made us into monsters."

"And yet you don't recoil from my touch." She draped herself languidly across his lap, the sheet parting to reveal moon pale skin and the delicate curves of a woman at the very peak of her bloom. "In fact, you're the only one of the original Zodiac Braves still alive today. Surely there must be something about me that compels you to continue on."

"It was easy for the others to take their own lives," he made a point of ignoring the naked woman on his lap, "but I cannot forget the things that were done in your name. If I am cursed to live forever, then I will spend the rest of this life doing everything in my power to help those in need."

"Fine, have it your way." Finally annoyed by his intentional disregard of her advances, Altima leapt gracefully off his lap, "You're so damned determined to be helpful, then you'll help me. Ramza is going to be mine, in every way, and you'll make sure that happens."

"I refuse."

"No you don't," her smile returned, but it was mirthless and fierce. "You'll do everything I tell you, and you'll do it well. You're mine, Desmond Cleigh; you sold me your soul a hundred lifetimes ago, and I can give you the one thing you would never refuse."

She leaned over and whispered in his ear, hot breath caressing his cheek. His face registered shock, then resignation. "What must I do?"

"Hey Ramza," Clymenstra jogged to keep up with his stride, "Now that Alma's safe, where do we go now?"

"She's not safe, not yet."Ramza's eyes were deadly and dark, like storm clouds. "So long as that beast is curled inside her, she is in mortal danger of losing her humanity."

"So . . ." She gestured for him to continue, "I imagine you're going somewhere with this."

The farmer sighed in resignation, "Yes. But it was not somewhere I had ever thought to tread again in this life." His eyes gazed far off, and as she followed his eyes, she found the barest of a steeple in the distance. "This happened to her because of me, because of an ancient wrong perpetrated in the name of the church. And it is there," he pointed toward the distant steeple, "Where we shall, nay must, find the secret to her salvation."

"You mean in a church?" Clymenstra looked at him in profound confusion.

"No mere church would serve this need." Ramza set his jaw and started down the muddy road, "I require the secret library of the sages, and a holy knight, both of which we shall find at Ourbonne Monastery."

"Why are we here, master?" As the evil trio approached the small cottage, Gilgamesh could not contain his curiosity, "I do not sense the Beoulve here."

"Because he is not." Lucavi knocked politely on the door.

A beautiful woman opened the door, her long golden hair spilling down her neck and shoulders in waves. Her large, clear blue eyes gleamed warmly as she greeted him. "Hello, can I help you, traveler?"

"You are Reis Dular, yes?"

"No, not for many years." The woman smiled, absently cradling the bulge in her belly, "It's Cadmus now. Do I know you from somewhere?"

"Oh no, we share a mutual acquaintance," Lucavi returned her warm smile, "A baby on the way? Why, Beowulf must be beside himself. Is he at home?"

"No, gone to the market." She gestured past herself, "Would you like to come in and wait? He is due back anytime."

"Why, bless your cozy little heart, that would be delightful." The demon nodded in gratitude as he slipped past her, followed by the stone-faced Gilgamesh. As the group of four skeletons emerged into the outwardly spilling light of the cottage door, Reis began to realize that something was afoot. As she tried to casually slip into the kitchen and out the back door, the skeletons took her arms and gently but firmly led her into the parlor. They made her sit in a chair by the fire, one of them keeping a firm hand on her shoulder to dissuade her from rising.

As Lucavi walked up to face her, she glared hatefully up at him with defiant eyes. "Before you try anything, I should warn you. Beowulf is a templar, and a powerful one. If you hurt me or our child, he will not rest until he has spilled the last of your blood."

The fat merchant smiled, "Such fire in your face, it's breath-taking. The doe-eyed house maid I couldn't be bothered with, but this rage-filled beauty whose eyes promise exquisite tortures, she fills me with raw, carnal desire. She makes me wonder what heights of pleasure we could ascend together in her absent husband's bed." He caressed her as he eyed her lasciviously, making her shudder in repulsion. "But unfortunately for me, I do not have time for such a luxury."

"Please don't hurt my baby!"

"Hurt your baby?" He clucked his tongue disapprovingly, "Why Reis, I will do no such thing. I haven't come to hurt anyone." The skeletons circled around her as he laid one hand on her belly. Sensing the maliciousness of the creature outside its mother, the unborn infant kicked at him, as if trying to dislodge the offending hand. "My dear, today is your lucky day. I've come to set you free."


	9. The Light is Gone

". . . and it is each day, in which we must thank the powers that watch over us all, we sinful children of Ivalice." Clear and strong, the preacher's voice carried through the cathedral. The whole of the congregation sat in attention to her, their eyes locked on her beautiful features; her sapphire eyes gleamed brilliantly against her smooth, ivory skin. "Let us bow our heads and pray." She bowed her head and the masses emulated her, waves of her elegant hair falling across her face. Her tresses were the color of wheat, shimmering in the radiance that the sun cast through the great window behind her, the red and gold image cast her in hues of vibrant blood and polished wealth. Ramza was as entranced by her as the masses, mumbling Ajora's prayer and crossing himself at its end. His copper colored eyes shone with reverence.

Clymenstra hated her. Not because of the way she entranced Ramza, although she would not deny some jealousy. There was an otherworldly element to her image, something too perfect to be real, it made her uncomfortable. "So," she nodded towards the female preacher, "Do you need her, or just a few minutes to self-gratify to her memory?"

"Hold your tongue," Ramza hissed irritatedly, "Do not be so foul-mouthed, this is a church for pity's sake."

"Well lah-dee-dah," she said in exasperation, sighing loudly enough that the people in the pew before theirs turned to glare at her. She gestured rudely at them, "Turn back to your bibles, you geriatric seat warmers."

"Must you persist in this childish rebellion against common decency?" Ramza snapped at her.

"I thought you were a heretic," the archer flopped down beside him, "What's with the holy Ajora act?"

"I'm being respectful of those who are here to worship." He ignored her and kept his head bowed, "and heretic is merely a hateful title slapped onto me by the previous bishop. I was raised to attend church; my father was a Knight Devout, so whether or not I believe in the religion, I believe in respecting the beliefs of others."

"Now go forth, back to your lives, and be mindful of the sacrifices that HE has made for us all." As the preacher brought the service to an end, the parishioners rose and made their way out, their minds filled with spiritual enlightenment and forgiveness. Collecting the heavy book, the speaker turned and made her way off the podium's back, vanishing into the deep purple curtains.

Ramza rose as well, "Come on," he gestured for the archer to follow, "we have a meeting with the preacher."

As he knocked on the rectory door, he could not suppress a sense of anxiety that crept over him. He wondered if he should run; avoid talking to her all together; there were a number of religious or spiritually proficient members of his old crew. Perhaps Rafa or Meliadoul could assist in her stead.

The rectory door opened, and he found himself staring into the azure eyes of the beautiful preacher. The scent of roses and the sea flooded his nostrils, robbing him of his words. "Hello . . . Agrias."

She smiled radiantly, showering him in the light of a thousand sunrises. The smile made him feel giddy. "Why hello, Ramza, how good to see you!" She threw her arms around her, hugging him. "Please, come in." As Ramza passed her, Clymenstra approached, throwing herself on Agrias in a hug. The preacher was surprised, her features betraying shock, and (for an instant) anger, before resuming the radiant smile. "My goodness, and you are?"

"Clymenstra," she smiled, embarrassed. "Sorry, I got carried away with all the hugging."

"Not a problem at all, dearie," Agrias gestured, "Please, come in."

The rectory's interior was small and somewhat cramped, but very tidy. The bookshelves, table top, and other surfaces were all dusted; no speck of grime to be found. He would have expected no less from Agrias Oaks, a woman always known for her business demeanor and her attention to the tiniest details. "I can see your hand in these quarters, everything is so impeccably kept."

As he turned to face her, she threw herself upon him, devouring his mouth with hers. She was pawing at his clothes, mewling with urgent need, "Oh, Gods, Ramza I've missed you." She tore his shirt upward, nearly wrenching his head as she struggled to disrobe him. Stunned, Ramza could neither act nor think straight as the chaste holy knight straddled him upon the rectory bed, "And you're going to give me everything I want." She reached inside of her robe, panting.

"Looking for this?" Agrias's head turned with a snarl, Ramza craning his neck to see past the half-naked woman. Clymenstra idly held the knife she'd taken from the preacher when they embraced, "You could really hurt someone with a toy like this. Hope you don't mind, dearie." The last word bristled with venom.

Shrieking like a banshee, the woman leapt from Ramza and charged the mercenary, her hands raised up in talons. "You thieving bitch, I'll claw your eyes out!"

She had barely made three feet toward Clymenstra when Ramza grabbed her from behind, immobilizing her arm with one of his as he grabbed her around the waist with the other. "I know not who you are, murderous wench, but it would be in your best interest to tell me what you have done with Dame Agrias."

The assassin broke into peals of cackling laughter, a sad, unhinged sound that made Ramza and Clymenstra's skin crawl. "In my best interest, you say?" Her head snapped around a full one-hundred and eighty degrees, until she was staring at Ramza from across her shoulders. "Are you truly one to speak for that?"

Clymenstra screamed. Ramza shoved the woman/monster away as he reached for his blade. "Prepare to die, beast."

"I wouldn't do that, Beoulve." Returning her head to a more natural alignment, the woman's features began to change. Her golden hair bled to a gory crimson hue, hanging in tendrils down to her backside, each one darkening to black at the tip. Her eyes deepened as well, gaining an unnatural red, like her hair. The pastor's frock was the last permutation, melting and shifting into a suit of black mail. In seconds, she was not the woman he had been deceived into thinking; she was undoubtedly more lascivious, perhaps even more sensual, but the appeal was ruined by the gleam of murderous intent in her eyes. "Strike me down, and you will lose any hope of finding the lady before my master has his way with her. And trust me," she brushed her hair back with a snobbish flip of her hand, "if you can't appreciate what he's made me to be, you'll have no love for what his plans with the Dame entail."

Ramza stayed his blade, "Speak fast, demon, or I'll cut the truth from you." Clymenstra also brought her crossbow to bear, but for the way her hands were shaking, it would have been of little use.

"Lucavi has taken her to the ruins of Riovanes Castle." The woman walked towards a small window and sat on the sill, arching her legs in what would have been a seductive way, had she not revealed herself to be an inhuman monstrosity. "It is a few days ride from here, so make haste. Come the full moon, should she still be within the castle, her virtue will be ruined in ways your human mind cannot begin to comprehend." Laughing madly, she dropped out the window, disappearing into the murky river below.

Clymenstra turned to speak with Ramza, but the murderous hate in his eyes stayed her tongue. She had seen his fury before, as formidable as any dragon, but the hatred was a hundred times worse; the chill that rolled from him as she met his death-screeching gaze was enough to raise gooseflesh on her arms and the nape of her neck, setting her to reflexively cross herself against the evil eye.

"The fat merchant," Ramza's words were a vile hiss as he crossed the rectory to a woman's armoire. He opened the oak doors and reached inside, retrieving out a gleaming knight's sword, drawing the blade just enough to verify the weapon's name by the runes on it. "I'm going to make sure he stays dead this time." He turned and stored out of the room. "Make with quick pace, Clymenstra!"

"Ramza," Her voice was small. She still clutched the crossbow in shaking hands. "I-I-I-I can't. . ."

He reached the end of the hallway; when he realized that she wasn't with him, he turned with a snarl. "Are you coming?"

"Ramza!" His name was a feral shriek, and his fury evaporated as if it were a fire quenched by a deluge of icy water, which now hardened in his veins at the sight of her. The pretty archer was ghost white and trembling like a fever-wrought soldier, the weapon shaking in his hands. Her blood-shot eyes were wide as saucers, with great rivers of tears having run down her cheeks.

_Shock._ The word was a slap in his face, and as he approached her she crumbled, the weapon clattering to the floor as he caught her. She exploded into panicked sobs. "Be at ease, I am here."

"I-I-I-I-I c-c-can't do it," she wailed, "The likes of Galron were a cry too much, but these . . . things, no more monsters, I beg of you!" She gripped him like a scared child, "I tried, Ramza, for truth I tried harder than I have tried anything!"

He hushed her like a colicky child, smoothing her hair down as he cradled her protectively. "Aye, you did try hard, and I am thankful for every labor you endured at my aide. Your eyes have seen more than any man or woman should, indeed too much. I release you, Clymenstra." She looked up at him in confusion. "Return to Dorter, marry for love, have children, be happy." He set her back against the wall and cupped one tear-damped cheek, "Live a life of light and sleep as a babe," and kissed her forehead. His face hardened as he rose and turned, walking away. "I must make words with nightmares."

Unable to speak, she watched him go. He had forgiven her cowardice, gave her blessing to live her life, a life he gave back to her when he could have killed her for bringing violence into his home. In a life filled with bad decisions and deprecating compromises, she had somehow stumbled upon a man who treated her as an equal, asked her for nothing and gave freely of everything. And now she would repay his kindness with cowardice.

In the halls of Ourbonne Monastary, Clymenstra found herself at the bottom of the hole, and wept.


	10. I Need You To Die

"I need you to die, please, it's all I have left. It is the only way."

Ramza's cry of agony was a wet gurgle as gore spilled over his tongue. He drew in a rasping cough and spat blood, struggling to breathe. Both his hands locked on his assailant's wrist, preventing the sword from moving anymore, doing more damage to his pierced lung. He looked up into the empty gray eyes of his would-be murderer and struggled to devise a plan of escape, but his mind was growing fuzzy; pain and oxygen deprivation were swiftly robbing him of his faculties.

It began to swiftly seem as if there would be no escaping for him.

. . . _The same night, an hour prior . . . _

The ride to Riovanes had taken five days, two longer than he had wanted or expected, and as Ramza reached the hill overlooking the derelict castle his exhaustion was matched only by his trepidation. The roads to the castle had been choked with obstacles, no doubt set by his foe. The Wind Flatts had experienced a sudden increase in the cuar population, one of the savage lions wounding Boco on their ride through. After slaying the damnable cats, he'd sent his loyal chocobo back to the farm and stolen one from a nearby farm. He hated abandoning his friend like that, and stealing from a stranger, but his quest was of the highest priority and he knew that Midori would not let the tame chocobo wander around injured. The Zerekile Falls bridge had been cut, forcing him to wade waist deep through the water to cross, drawing the assault of a coven of hungry mind players. The woods around the area had been creeping with skeletons and ghosts, in numbers greater than the tainted bogs around Goug. The night landscape was lit by a full moon, staring down on the lone soldier as a great, baleful yellow eye; he could only hope that it was not too late.

He mentally steeled himself for combat, selecting from the list of skills he had learned to survive by during the war, ensuring that he would be an unstoppable force of nature when he reached the drawbridge. _With so little time remaining,_ he mentally chided himself, _I will have to be precise and swift. They must not have a chance to raise an alarm, or forces to re-gather to impede my progress._ Digging his heels into the chocobo's flanks, the bird screeched and took off like a shot, charging the castle's gate.

As it rounded the bend, Ramza got a good look at the two skeletons guarding the gate. They saw him as well, drawing spheres of incandescent blue fire into existence. The bird passed into the shadows of one of the great stone archways, emerging on the other side as the two undead creatures loosed their attacks. The first orb hit the massive bird squarely in the chest, searing feathers and causing it to collapse in an agonized shriek as the spell tore through muscle and bone. The second caught it in the head, blasting away half its skull and killing the poor creature. The guards approached slowly, their eyes searching for the rider.

Ramza, using the shadows as cover, had made use of his dragoon skills and leapt soundlessly to the archway's top. He slipped over the heads of the dumb undead, descending directly between them. As his fete hit the drawbridge he was already turning, Agrias' sword a golden flash as it cleaved through the undead on his left. The second turned to 'knife hand' him with its bony talons, but he was already tearing the holy blade through its torso, following up by kicking its newly inanimate corpse into the moat.

He resisted the urge to tend to the chocobo's corpse, reminding himself that there was another golden-mained creature that would need burying if he did not make haste. As he passed into the outer courtyard, the shadows came alive as undead began to shuffle out of them, drawing up elemental spheres. The stillness was shattered by a cacophony of mad laughter, issued by the red-haired monster from Ourbonne, who sat perched atop the parliament wall. "Welcome, Ramza Beoulve, to your demise!"

"Monster!" Ramza screamed at her from the sea of undead, each of them slowly shambling toward him. "What have you done with Dame Agrias?"

"Safe for now," she cackled, "Inside my castle. She will serve me, soon as I am done with you."

Ramza screamed again. "I am going to destroy all of you. Every last one! What name would you like carved on your tombstone, undead whore?"

She smiled with smoky red eyes, "Salascera, my master calls me."

Penned in by the monsters, Ramza continued to scream. And scream. And scream. The monsters swarmed him, claws flashing and energy bolts flaring in the darkness, and still he continued to scream. He vanished under them, his voice muffled by their bodies, still screaming. The she-monster chuckled and shook her head, "For all his boasting, he screams into insanity as my undead tear him asunder. My master's concern was unwarranted, it seems." She rose from her seat, "Perhaps I should see to my new toy."

"Salascera!" The name was a scream of fury, and as she looked back toward the monsters, she saw their numbers swell. And break. His clothes tattered, Ramza had transformed in their midst; his movements were a blur of quicksilver, so swift she could barely follow them, and each time he rained a blow upon the monsters, two or three would shatter like brittle wood. He was tearing them apart like toys, screaming like a madman each time he found his hands empty of a mangled foe.

"Impossible!" Salascera felt fear, a cold slithering thing that coiled around in her guts, as Ramza smashed the last of the skeletons, making a leap that cleared the parliament wall, landing him directly adjacent to the woman. "Impossible, you should be dead. Your existence is impossible!"

She brandished a sword of black bone and swung, but he had already slashed the golden sword through her arm, cleanly severing her hand. She wailed and grabbed the stump, stumbling back as he advanced. "The first thing I learned as a cadet, was how to focus my rage; how it could make me stronger, faster, immune to fear, and how I could use it to bolster my allies." He leveled the blade at her, "You have threatened my friends, and I have a reservoir of rage deep enough to drown us all."

He drew back to swing, and she curled up to protect herself as the blade descended. "Wait!" She screamed. Several long seconds after, she realized that he had stayed his hand at her request.

"Tell me where Dame Agrias is, and I will let you leave her intact." His voice was a horrible rasp.

"The dungeon."

"Now get out." He made as if to swing again and Salascera screeched, disappearing in a burst of red smoke. He sheathed the sword and leapt off the wall, landing inside the inner courtyard. A massive dragon was curled up within the area, dead. Its hide was scored with ragged slashes, its great blue eyes staring blankly into oblivion. Clutched between its massive claws were the shattered remnants of an egg, the soupy mess of its contents drying on the sandy ground. Moving past the hulk of its form, he found the door to the dungeon, and the man slumped against it.

His armor was scored by gashes that could only belong to the dragon's claws, blood having leaked out and stained the metal plating. His white cloak was also stained with gore, as well as liberally torn. His short brown hair was matted with it, his scalp scored with a few deep cuts, through one he could even see the gleam of ruddy bone. In one hand, he clutched a blood-caked rune blade. Ramza recognized the man instantly, "Oh gods . . . Beowulf, no."

Somewhere, the phantom of Salascera's cackle echoed, and Beowulf shook as he sucked in a soggy gasp. He coughed up blood. "R-R-Ramza?" He wheezed and looked up at his friend weakly, "Is it really you?"

"Yes," Ramza sobbed in relief and dropped to his knees, "I am here old friend. Be still, I will tend your wounds."

"Ramza," he said in a wet gurgle, fresh blood spilling over his lips, "Y-you must help me." He reached out an unsteady hand.

"Of course, old boy." Ramza grasped the hand tightly, "Anything, just name it."

Ramza's face went white as Beowulf's rune blade pierced his chest. "I need you . . . t-to die." The tip of the blade skidded across his sternum, missing his heart by an inch as it slid cleanly through his lung and out his back.

Ramza coughed up blood. His own blood.

**Author's Notes:** Okay, I'd been meaning to start this on all my stories, but I keep forgetting to. In a hope to enhance my reviews and reader hits, I'm going to start responding to my reviews and PMs from readers. ^_^

**Angel70:** I am glad you enjoyed the story. I always update, it just . . . takes awhile. I work full time, go to school, and have a family to take care of. I hope you stay along for the ride, because it's about to go NUTS.

**Trevor X:** Yeah, I'm notorious for those. I'm just glad that they're not so prevalent it makes it hard for people to follow along. As for discarding the fragment of his sword, well, he was in the heat of the moment. And yes, I love wheels within wheels. I wasn't terribly pleased with the resurrection scene either, but I wanted to get past it and move on to bigger things, like Desmond and Altima. THAT's a side story I loo forward to getting deeper into.

**Divine Elly:** My goal was to emphasize his love of her. Being who he is, I think that he'd feel guilty for what she endured during the war.

**Liberius: **Stay interested! I promise, this isn't anywhere near the end.

**Hunterror:** I'm glad you approve. I want the story to be fast-paced, but not so fast that things don't develop properly.

**Zalbard: **Yes, I finally got around to bringing in Agrias. She's going to become an integral character, and a source of contention between several characters.

**Yambembi:** The fight with Delita was intentionally short, and here's why: when he was a fighter, he was a hard worker and he got constant practice, but as a king he's going to spend all his time on his butt. That, and if you've seen the last bit at the end of the game between Delita and Ovelia and you caught my "old war wound" reference at the chapter beginning, he's not in any condition to fight anymore. The style of their speech continues to aggravate me, it's hard to keep that "Olde English" candor, but ultimately necessary I think. I was glad when the remake came out for the PSP, gave me something to reference other than Shakespeare books. And don't worry, there's going to be a lot more of Desmond and Altima.

**TheEnd3030: **I'm glad you stumbled onto me. I find most of my favorite stories by accident on here.

**Naf-Nav:** I hope you're still reading, because Agrias is about to join the party in a big way.

**Master of Ice and Wuji Grey:** Yeah, the scene transitions can get a little confusing sometimes. I'm trying to get better about keeping them clear.

**Blakraven66:** Of course it's a trap! If he can't topple Ramza in one-on-one combat, he's going to resort to being a sneaky, deceitful bastard. For this reason, I love Machiavellian villains.

To everyone who reviews, thanks for reading.

To everyone who reads, review!


	11. Putting a Hero to Rest

Beowulf tried to turn the blade, widening the wound, but Ramza's grip was like iron. "Beowulf, please." He wheezed the words through tightly clenched teeth, "Why . . . are you . . . doing this?"

"B-b-because I h-have t-t-to," The templar said in a stuttering monotone, "It's-s the o-o-only w-way t-to make things r-right."

"What . . . the hell are . . . you speaking of, Beowulf?" Ramza struggled to breathe, but the blood filling his lungs made each breath burn. "Whatever . . . have I d-done . . . to you?" Ramza's vision was swimming, his grip on the templar's muscular wrist slipping.

"Not you, Ramza," Beowulf said, "Never you, dearest friend Ramza." Beowulf twisted the blade slightly. Ramza screamed in agony as the edges of the wound tore wider, blood spilling into his lung faster now. He hiccupped and vomited blood on himself, tightening his grip again. "Lucavi came to my home, took Reis." Tears of blood began sliding down his cheeks, "He restored the c-c-curse, pushed it further. Tore out her humanity."

Ramza looked back toward the slain dragon, then to the shattered egg it had curled itself around, struggling to protect. "Oh . . . oh Gods, Beowulf, you killed them."

"I had . . . no choice." The templar replied in his strangled monotone, "They had become monsters . . . w-we kill monsters, remember?"

"Not like this!" Ramza gestured toward the dead dragon. "We cured Reis, you and I. We saved her. But you, you slaughtered the woman who meant the world to you. You slaughtered your unborn child! The Beowulf Cadmus I knew would never perpetrate so heinous an act!" Looking into those dead, grey eyes, a realization passed over Ramza; Beowulf had not blinked, nor breathed, since this had begun. "Gods, you're not even him, are you? You're just a puppet."

"N-no, I am Beowulf Cadmus." The templar insisted flatly, "I am the captain of the Gryphon Knights. I am the rune blade of Lionel."

"You're the corpse of a good man who died fighting a villain; who died . . . because of my fool pride." Ramza struggled to recapture the rage and power that he'd summoned up against Salascera, but he could not focus enough to do it. The blood was flooding his chest, stifling his breath. He was not long for this world. "If it is the last thing I do, before I breathe no more, I will cut Lucavi's strings and send you to your wife and son, Beowulf. This I swear."

"Oh Ramza, he's done it to you as well." Beowulf released the hilt of his rune blade and drew a dagger from his belt, "That bastard has turned you into a monster, just like Reis."

Ramza struggled to free himself, but even without Beowulf's great strength holding him in place, the blade of the sword had become lodged in the stone wall behind him. "Please, open your eyes and see the truth of what you have become."

"I see that I am become the hand of mercy," Beowulf grabbed Ramza's tunic and pulled him forward, "and I will send you into the hereafter so that my Reis will have good company, until it is time for me to join her."

Beowulf's knife was a flash as it descended, but Ramza was faster. "Burning anger; rising, burst, Aurablast!" The wave of energy that flared from Ramza's clenched fist caught the templar squarely in the chest; his armor absorbed most of the damage potential, but the force was enough to hurl him backwards several feet. Beowulf's dagger skittered away as he flipped backwards, cracking his head soundly on the courtyard's stones as he tumbled, coming to rest face down. Ramza wheezed and coughed up more blood. "I'm sorry, old friend."

"I forgive you, Ramza." Beowulf rose from his slump, "I know that you are not in control of your own actions."

Ramza stared in shock at the head wound Beowulf had received from his tumble. The templar's scalp had been laid wide open, exposing the ruddy gleam of his skull. No blood ran from the wound, rather, a black sludge barely oozed. "Oh Gods, Beowulf, you're dead."

"Nonsense." He wobbled slightly on his feet, brushing the torn flap of scalp aside as if it were an unruly lock of hair, "Iron and steel fall into decay. Weapon Break!"

Beowulf's fist descended with a roar, striking Ramza and shattering the blade that had pinned him to the wall; the handle clattered to the ground with a sharp clang, while the metal within the wound fragmented and spread like grapeshot, widening the wound and spilling fresh blood down his chest in rivulets. The farmer cried out in pain as he was sent skidding across the ruined cobblestones, leaving a trail of blood. He struggled to pull himself along, to flee the approaching Templar, but his right arm flapped uselessly at his side, broken. "No, it can't end like this . . ."

"Stop fighting it, Ramza." Beowulf said plainly, his boots scraping dully on the ground as he approached.

Ramza finally managed to roll himself onto his back, staring up at the black sky. Somewhere, his adversary was closing in on him, but he was too tired to care. A cold numbness was filling him. "This . . . cannot be it . . ."

"Accept your fate, Ramza." Beowulf modestly chided him, "There is no shame in death, it is part of the cycle. In time, we all must die."

There was a groan of ancient metal, and a doorway opened into the courtyard, the great barricade swinging wide. From within the bowels of the castle, a blond-haired woman strode into view. Her golden tresses drifted upon an invisible breeze as she moved, her simple peasant clothes worn with as much regal air as if they were spun from the finest silks. Her sapphire eyes first looked at Beowulf, scanning him intently, before swinging to the sprawled form at her bare feet. Ramza's breath gurgled in his throat as more blood spilled from his mouth. "You may . . . be right, old friend. I see a . . . an angel comes f-for me . . ."

The angel scoffed and rolled her eyes, lifting the golden sword she clutched in her hand. "Oh by the Gods, Ramza, must you wax in such melodrama? Beside the fact, angels do not come to court the souls of heretics."

"Dame Agrias?" Beowulf reached down and retrieved the remaining half of the sword he'd broken in Ramza's chest, "That Lucavi has taken you as well makes me sad. Worry not, I will-"

Agrias was not listening; while Beowulf droned on, she drew her blade up in both hands and aimed its gleaming length toward the black sky. "Heaven's wish to destroy all minds; holy . . . explosion!" There was a series of white flashes as something streaked toward the Templar, but before he could move, the shining radiance erupted from the ground at his feet. It lanced through his undead flesh, searing the bonds of dark magic that animated him. The white explosion launched him skyward, his smoldering form trailing tendrils of soot and cinders, and as he began to fall, she drew her blade across one hand. "Life is short. Bury . . . Steady Sword!" As the ground rushed up to meet Beowulf, blue light exploded around him, freezing him solid; when he hit the ground, the ice shattered, completely destroying any trace of him. "Be at rest, Sir Cadmus. I am sure that your lady waits for you on the other side."

"A . . . Agrias?" Ramza wheezed, "Is it really you?"

"Who else would save you, Ramza?" She knelt next to him, gracelessly extracting shards of metal from his wound, "The last I heard, yours was not a name that kindled camaraderie."

He chuckled, "Perhaps not." He grabbed her hand in his own, "It is . . . good to see you."

"Stop talking," she chided him, "I need to heal you." She placed her hands on his chest, "Blessing Breeze, blow in energy. Curaga."

"I found your armor, Dame Oakes." A smaller woman emerged from the hallway, the knight's armor and satchel clutched in her hands.

"Thank you, Clymenstra."

"Clymenstra?" Ramza turned his head weakly, "What in heaven's name?"

"What?" She feigned indignity, "You think that I can't make my own way to the castle? Come now, Ramza, I did survive my own share of scrapes before you fumbled into my life."

The bark of surprised laughter that came from Ramza gurgled roughly, "Of course . . . how s . . . silly of . . . of . . ." He went limp, unconscious.

The archer paled slightly, "Dame Oakes, is he . . .?"

"Alive," Agrias sat back on her haunches, "But very weak. He will need at least a day's rest before we go on."

"Good," Clymenstra sat down in the dirt beside the holy knight, "It'd be a shame if he didn't have to live down that he was saved by a pair of fine ladies." He took a long drink from her wineskin and passed it to Agrias.

The holy knight accepted graciously and took a considerable pull of her own, "A good wine, strong and sweet."

"Thanks for the good praise," the archer took the skin back and drank again, "If there is one thing of which the Clarmont family knows, it's how to still a good wine."

"Clymenstra Clarmont," Agrias took the offered skin a second time, "Your family hails from the east, beyond Sal Ghedos?"

"Indeed, I was born in Rabanastre."

"Wow, Rabanastre to Lionel, that is quite the journey." Again the wineskin passed between them, "So what brought you out here? The family looking to expand its business?"

"No," Clymenstra's expression grew distant, dreamy. "When I came out to Sal Ghedos, improving the family interests was the furthest thing from my mind."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Okay, finally back. I took a short hiatus to work on my Adventure Time story "You Would Defy Nature", and now I have returned to put time back into my other good stories such as this gem, and the Jumper Chronicles. Pardon the shortness, but as anyone who has read a lot of my stuff knows, I tend to alter my chapter lengths based on the scene setting.

**MalaZh:** Well, Ramza isn't going to die here, but I can't say the same for Beowulf. There will be a more formal explanation of the events here, as well as some exposition on Lucavi's motivations, in later chapters.

**Naf-Nav:** As you wish. ^_^

**Thatoneanonoverthere:** This story will be continued, promise. My goal is to finish all the stories on this site, as well as to add some more, so I look forward to seeing more reader comments from you.

**Grey Master of Ice and Muji:** That would be shout, hence Ramza's comment about using his anger to become stronger, braver, faster, and so on. I always loved Shout, it reinforced the whole idea that screaming in frustration and rage made you more of a bad ass. ^_^


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